


Happy Catmas; or, Gravyous Bodily Harm

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Animal Death, Catboys & Catgirls, Cats being cats, Christmas Fluff, Cross-species Molestation, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dogboys & Doggirls, Established Relationship, First Time, Gore, Happy Ending, Humor, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Murderkitty Gonna Murder, Oral Knotting, Polyamory, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Telepathy, but it's between non-humans, cartoonish violence, hot dogging, in the name of science i.e. studying Catamis's cock, polyamory negotiation, they're only half-animals, very intelligent dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Treville promises the All-Mother that, if She lets him get through this moment without laughing *obviously*, he will *definitely* be a much more dutiful seed from now on --The All-Mother fills him with *Her* amusement, and Her love, and Her approval of everything he *is*, and it's all a great deal like being fucked in the middle of a tavern by a goddess while your terrifying child quizzes your equally terrifying lover.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Jason Blood/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires), Jason Blood/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 23





	1. Pretty much anything that gets Treville out of that office -- up to and including literal explosions and mass murder -- counts as a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).

> Disclaimers: So much of this isn't mine. SO much.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: AU-ized mentions of a (very) few things from various points in the show. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: Jack and I lost our beloved cat Princess to a sudden, random stroke about three days after I posted the first cat-shifter fic and, well, I needed some time to grieve before I could even think about doing another. I've had that time, though, and when I mentioned to my Pixie that I missed writing about Catamis... she just happened to have this (entirely unrelated) bunny to hand. 
> 
> I laughed myself sick for *days* thinking about various aspects of the bunny, and finally put the other WIPs I was working on aside entirely so I could focus on it. And here we are, with some good, old-fashioned holiday fluff. *koff*
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much, much love and gratitude to Pixie, demigodscum, and, of course, my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, thrown objects, screaming, translation of Telish into English, smoothing of feathers, and generally helping me to do precisely what I wanted to do. 
> 
> Just remember, though -- all Pixie's fault. *nods judiciously*

Pretty much anything that gets Treville out of that office -- up to and including literal explosions and mass murder -- counts as a good thing. 

It's a good day when Treville can get out of his accursed little box of an office and into the air -- even if the air in question is just the little market sprawled out around the garrison. 

The market has no official designation, and, by rights, shouldn't be there, at all -- the sheer number of near-fatal accidents which occur due to the confluence of civilians, civilian vehicles, and civilian *horses* added to everything the garrison can bring -- 

Well, in all truth, it's Treville's job -- just as it was Laurent's job before him -- to *use* the King's Musketeers to raze the market right down to the cobbles, running through whichever stragglers put up the loudest fuss, and whipping a few of the rest -- just to make sure their point got across. 

Laurent failed to do that job, thankfully. 

Treville will, for any number of reasons, *also* fail to do that job. 

What's left -- 

What's left is to *half-arse* the job by taking time away from being *just* the Captain of the King's Musketeers to be something like the *mayor* of this little, semi-independent chunk of Paris. 

So -- he moves through the market, slowly and deliberatively. 

He greets the vendors -- absolutely all of them -- by name. 

He greets the regular customers -- not all of them, but most -- by name. 

He asks about their cares and troubles -- and he damned well makes note of the cares and troubles the Captain of the King's Musketeers can *do* something about -- behind the scenes or not. 

You never know when a favour done now will turn into incalculably valuable human capital later. 

It -- 

It doesn't feel like more of the same politicking he spends his *life* doing. It doesn't. 

For one thing, he's bloody *outside*. Sundown is still an hour away, and he can smell the *air*. Paris is as foul as ever, but it's not parchment and candlewax and *perfumed* pomade. 

It's humans, and horses. It's sweat and dirt and mud. 

It's *life* -- *real* life -- and. 

And... spirit-magic. 

Treville represses a blink and the urge to *whirl* toward where he'd sensed that little... flare. Instead, he smiles at young Basil, the youth who runs the baker's stall. 

Basil is easier on the eyes than he is on the baker's purse -- this close to sundown, he shouldn't still have this much stock left -- but... well. 

It's not up to *Treville* to choose who gets hired. 

And Basil's mouth, when he smiles back, is *exactly* inspiring enough for all sorts of wonderful thoughts to start rolling through Treville's mind. 

Like that one about helping Basil find a more lucrative career -- 

And that one about the alley just *there* -- 

And -- 

But there was that little flare again, that little -- 

Hm. 

It's not a *steady* use of spirit-magery. It's coming in bursts, or -- 

Flares and *sparks* -- 

"Sir...? Was there something else you... needed...?" 

And, when Treville focuses on Basil again, there's enough of a *hopefully* speculative look in the boy's eyes that Treville *almost* loses control of his carefully benign-and-responsible smile. 

Now is not the time to be honest.

Not even with pretty boys who probably know full well how *much* of a crock of shite the benign-and-responsible act is, considering how much of a reputation Treville had made for himself all over the bloody continent before being bumped up to Captain. 

He doesn't sigh. 

He doesn't *growl* -- 

He smiles *wryly*, tips his *hat* -- and winks at Basil. "Nothing at all, son. Good luck with your sales," he says, and makes his way toward that use of *power*. 

(Your sacrifice is *noted*, amant,) Jason says, slipping easily into their shared soul-space from... somewhere.

Don't even start. *You're* not home to keep me honest. 

(But I *will* be --) 

When? *Exactly*. 

(Do you think if I stay away long enough you could drag home another son for us to raise?) 

Treville blinks -- 

He doesn't *stop* in the middle of the crowd -- 

He. 

And Jason is hooting. At him. 

Jason. *You* told me to adopt Athos --

(I truly did -- because it was the *right* thing to do. And adopting Porthos when he came to us was *also* the right thing to do -- do keep walking --) 

Treville growls and keeps *walking* -- What *is* it? 

(Have you recognized what you're walking *towards*, yet?) 

Treville *stops* growling and *thinks* -- There's a spirit-mage, but I think whoever it is... they're weakened. Something's wrong. There's... I can feel a great deal of *baseline* power -- 

(But it isn't being *accessed* -- because it can't be. At the *moment*. What else can you sense? What are you letting *me* sense *through* you?) 

Treville absently purchases a handful of kebabs from a vendor whose children's education Treville has almost certainly paid for at least seven times over -- 

Keeps walking -- 

I... 

(Yes...?) 

Am I walking towards a *shifter*, lover? I -- somehow?

(You --) 

You *taught* me that shifters didn't *have* to be earth-mages, but -- 

(I truly did, amant. But I would like to take this time to state, for the record, that I have not yet *encountered* spirit-mage shifters in the *flesh*.) 

Treville grunts quietly. 

(Yes, do be a *bit* careful --)

I will, I will. But --

(*What*?) 

Treville deliberately opens up his vision a little so that Jason can see more clearly through his eyes -- as opposed to the eyes of the dog *within* Treville. After a moment, all three of them can see the tableau of a dim little alley packed nearly to the brim with trash -- 

And a quivering little grey-brown mouse -- 

And a crouching black cat staring balefully down at the mouse, apparently trying to will it to... something. 

The cat, on closer inspection with various senses, is a male who is *close* to reaching his full growth, but who hasn't made it there just yet. 

He's *absolutely* a spirit-mage -- 

He's *underfed* -- hm. 

Treville quiets his personal force, moves closer -- though not very close -- and places one of the kebabs in range -- 

"Mowr!" 

Well, that was clear enough. "I can *tell* that you're busy with that mouse, son, but... I thought you might have an easier time with your tasks if you weren't quite so hungry." 

The cat growls low, and -- 

Also clearly. Hm. "The mouse *does* look tasty enough, now that I'm paying attention, but... I'm afraid I don't understand, son. *Why* can't you eat him?" 

The cat makes low, breathy chuffing noises that speak *eloquently* of frustration -- and the frustration of a *hunter*. 

Very eloquently, really. 

(Are you wondering why you can understand him so well when you've spent your life finding cats *mostly* mystifying, amant?) 

Are you helping with that? 

(Absolutely not -- and neither is your dog. But...?) 

He's a spirit-mage... and he *wants* to communicate with me. I -- got it. Treville turns back to the cat. "I'm Treville, by the way --" 

"Mowr." 

"No, I've never much cared for small talk, either," Treville says, and eyes the quivering mouse. "If you could *tell* me what you're trying to --" 

This time, the little chuffing noises are impatient on *top* of being frustrated, which means Treville has to do better -- 

Ah, the cat is batting at the mouse. Firmly.

Specifically, at the mouse's head. He -- hm. 

The mouse -- who still appears quite paralyzed except for the low, steady quiver -- is thus being smacked to and fro -- no, no. 

Just his *head*. 

Other cats tend to go for the belly at least *sometimes*, and *this* cat is a spirit-mage, and -- 

"You're trying to... do a working on that mouse's soul?" 

"Mee!" 

"Got it, son, and I'm sorry it took me so long to catch on -- just to be clear, it's... better for you to eat your meals once you've taken control of their terrified little souls?" 

Lots of little chuffs -- and an impatient look. 

(That is *fascinating*.)

Isn't it, though. 

(I don't think I've ever... do tell him --)

Treville hums and tips his hat. "Son, neither I nor my lover have *ever* met a spirit-mage who *could* renew and strengthen their powers the way a blood-mage or fire-mage renews and strengthens theirs --" 

"Brrt?" And the cat lifts his nose -- 

*Finally* turns to look at Treville -- 

And blinks rapidly and *jumps* back, fur fluffing out in all directions --

The mouse shrieks ear-piercingly and *dashes* away -- 

And the cat never looks away from Treville -- or the immortal mage behind his eyes. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Be easy, son. We don't mean you any harm --" 

"Mowrr!" 

"Well, I'm Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville, Captain of the King's Musketeers -- and you know I'm an earth-mage with just a little blood-magery I can call on in emergencies, yes?" 

"Mee! *Mee*!" 

"Right you are. My lover -- whom you're sensing -- is Jason Blood, immortal blood-, fire-, and shadow-mage. We share blood-corruption and many, many other things. And we would very much like to care for you." 

The cat flares his nostrils -- 

Sniffs at them *thoroughly* -- from a distance -- 

Treville opens his tunic with his free hand so the cat will have an easier time getting more of his scents. 

The cat growls again, quiet and *cautious* -- 

"It's all right, son. Jason and I would *both* like to learn a lot more about how your magery works... and, while I'm relatively new to teaching others how to use *their* magery? *Jason* has been taking students for the better part of five centuries." 

"Mah!" 

"You can read my honesty for that, can't you?"

The cat studies him -- both of them -- with both a very *unsubtle* expenditure of power... and a very *subtle* one. 

Treville rumbles. "We can, however, *both* teach you how not to get caught when you're playing little tricks like that. Here," Treville says, and reaches gently -- 

*Teases* the cat's spirit with a tendril of his own -- 

"MROWR!" 

And then pulls back before the cat can retaliate. "I took nothing from you, son -- and I didn't poke my muzzle anywhere it didn't belong. You can tell that, too -- and you know we can teach you to do just the same, and much, much more." 

The cat pants once -- 

Twice -- 

And stops that, standing straight and just as tall as he can. "Mert?" 

(*Do* tell him --) 

"We want to, all right," Treville says, and smiles. "As Jason just told me to tell you... I have *always* had a fondness for intelligent, brave, imperious, and *mouthy* young lads who want to learn." 

The cat uses more power to study them -- but it flares out before it can completely scan them, and the cat makes more frustrated noises. 

"Shh, shh, what is it, son? What do you need to know?" 

"MEHR!" 

Treville blinks -- 

*Etrigan* laughs thunderously inside them all -- _Please let the young man know that I prefer eating much less diverting individuals._

Treville passes that on and raises his eyebrows -- no. "I apologize for not clearing that up right away, son. I've gotten used to Etrigan's tastes and habits long since, and he has never once harmed anyone who hasn't *richly* deserved it." 

The cat shares thoughtful scents for long moments -- 

The cat looks to the kebab on the ground -- 

Looks to the kebabs in Treville's *hands* -- 

Treville offers -- 

"Mrrt," the cat says, obviously making a decision, and devours the kebab on the ground. He licks his chops and stares *balefully* at Treville with lambent gold eyes -- 

(Aramis! My! I! *Aramis*!) 

Treville blinks -- 

Gives himself a *shake* -- 

And tips his hat before offering the kebabs. "Pleased to meet you, son. Another?" 

In answer, the cat -- *Aramis* -- leaps up and climbs until he's on Treville's shoulder. "Mrrt." 

"Well, I guess we can go home now." 

(I'll just start working on the speech you'll be giving to Louis about *this* adoption, shall I?) 

Treville considers that for a moment as he walks -- 

For *several* moments... 

Aramis's balance is perfect -- 

(*Yes*, amant...?) 

It occurs to me that Aramis is almost certainly better house-trained than a goodly portion of the French peerage, lover. 

(Hm. Well, let's work on that so he doesn't give Louis a complex.)


	2. If he's going to stay in that office, he ought to at least have someone to talk to.

Still, it's necessary to go back to the garrison *before* he can head home, and there are only so many people he can glare at *evilly* until they run headlong for the latrines. 

His job is, as ever, his job. 

Today Aramis is right there to help him with it. 

His help involves walking all over the important parchment -- 

Clawing at the shelving -- 

Winding through Treville's legs -- 

Getting petted -- 

Getting his ears scratched -- 

Getting his belly scratched for the approximately three and a half seconds it takes for Aramis to decide that Treville's arm is a small, delicious animal which needs to be gutted -- 

Treville sighs happily. "I should tell you about Porthos's blood-father someday." 

"Brrt?" Aramis doesn't stop trying to claw his arm to ribbons through the leathers -- 

"You're an excellent cat, son, one moment --" Treville signs off on an order for more bacon with his free hand, then puts the parchment out of range of Aramis's claws -- 

"Mee!" 

"Oh, don't stop clawing, here," Treville says, and gets that belly a few more -- 

"Rowr!" 

"Excellent, now where was I?" 

"Mrrt!" 

"Yes, well -- here, let's get you more comfortable for your clawing --" 

"Mrrt." 

"Good, good. Anyway, as I said earlier, Porthos is my second adopted son, after Athos. However, Porthos is *also* my son by blood-magic -- and has been since I was blood- and soul-bound to his mother -- my Amina-love -- while Porthos was in her womb." 

"Brrt?" 

"Well, there was a lot going on back then. Dark magic, darker prophecies..." Treville shakes his head. "Amina's guardian Ife knew that things would go badly wrong if Amina didn't have a protector who was a witch *and* a warrior. They wound up picking me for it, because Amina and I both wanted it..." 

Treville smiles wryly. "It went wrong anyway, because we never realized the real threat was coming from Amina's patron at the time -- and Porthos's blood-father -- the son of the then-Marquis de Belgard." 

Aramis digs his fore- and back-claws into Treville's leathers and chirrups softly. 

"He did, son. He struck while I -- and the rest of Amina's pack -- were out of the country. Sent an assassin after Amina and the babe. Amina fought the assassin off -- and disappeared. I found the assassin *eventually* -- tracked him -- got as much of the story out of him as I *could*...

"And then I let him bleed out from all the wounds I'd left on him and went after Belgard," Treville says, and smiles at Aramis sharply. Tickles his chin with one finger. 

"*Mrrt*." 

"That I did, son. On his own lands, while he sobbed and screamed and begged to die. I strung him up *by* his intestines, and left him there for his bigoted, greedy family to find. And then..." He can't smile anymore. 

Aramis chirrups again and scent-marks Treville's finger aggressively. 

"I lost my Amina-love forever, Aramis. Never trust a death-mage who's afraid of death, mm? My Amina-love did just that -- she thought she *had* to in order to lay low for a little while and keep herself and the babe safe... and the man turned around and cursed her. Made it impossible for her to tell anyone anything true or substantive about who she was or where she came from... 

"She could never ask for *help*, son. And, all the while, the death-mage was draining her life-force --" 

And Aramis is on his shoulder again, pressing close to his face and chirruping over and over -- 

Treville shudders. "Jason came to me, son. Jason..." Treville laughs painfully. "Jason is only *functionally* immortal, and he nearly died in my turnip field, on my property outside of Paris. He helped me find Guillou -- the death-mage who murdered my Amina-love -- and he damned well helped me finally track down Porthos." 

Aramis is silent for long moments -- 

His heart is beating even faster than a cat's normally would -- 

He's pressed so *close* -- and Treville can absolutely follow instructions when they're in small words. 

Usually. 

He pets Aramis, and breathes in the scents of his warmth, and his presence, and his need for Treville to have, in this moment, that which makes him feel better. 

"You're a good boy, son. I... Porthos was looking to come here, you know." 

"Brrt?" 

"Amina was able to tell him, in her very last story, that her loves -- her *pack* -- were Musketeers." Treville smiles crookedly. "My boy had been dreaming of us his whole life." 

Aramis settles on Treville's shoulder and most of the way around his neck. "Merh." 

"Well, you'll meet him soon. I sent him and Athos home early today, since they just got back from a mission." 

"MEH." 

"Well, I still have this paperwork -- I. Would rather not have my ears pierced, son." 

Aramis growls menacingly.

Treville looks at his desk.

Aramis growls *lower* -- 

"Right you are, son. Let's go find my escort." 

Aramis scent-marks Treville's ear, cheek, and jaw -- and starts to purr.


	3. Home is where the nannying is. And you'll just shut it and stay put for it if you know what's good for you.

Once they *are* home, Aramis gives Treville approximately five minutes to introduce him to Athos and Porthos before demanding to know where Jason is. 

At which point *both* Athos and Porthos give him pointed looks, too. 

Treville raises his hands. "You'll have to take it up with him, sons. He *insisted* that he needed to take this trip." 

(Fine, *throw* me to the wolves.) 

*Anytime*, lover. 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "With all due respect sir, you do realize how difficult a time you're going to have getting Porthos to leave on missions now that he knows Jason could leave you alone and vulnerable at a moment's notice." 

"Bloody *that*!" 

Treville... suspects that he's giving Athos a stricken look. "Son. I..." 

"Don't even start, Daddy. You've got an *agreement* to keep up with us," Porthos says, and *glares* at him. 

Treville stares at nothing for a moment -- 

(Yes, don't say anything else for a moment, amant; Etrigan just went to get a snack --) 

You -- no. "Son -- *sons*. I am a man in my prime. I am a *soldier* in my prime. I am an *exceedingly* powerful and well-*trained* *witch* in my *prime*. What part of that adds up to me needing to be *nannied*?" 

Athos shrugs with only his facial muscles. 

"Too right, brother," Porthos says. "I can't stop you from getting up to tricks when we're not here, Daddy --" 

"Tricks -- *son* --" 

"-- but that's just *it*. You're bloody supposed to have a *partner*! *You* taught us that!" 

(You truly did...) 

What -- you -- no. *No*. Treville checks -- 

Aramis is watching all of this very closely from where he's curled in Porthos's arms. He -- hm. 

He's not making a very good impression. Time to fix that. 

"Son. *Sons*. Does it make *either* of you feel any better to know that the *most* dangerous and strenuous thing I have done since Jason left a few days ago was to investigate the alley Aramis was inhabiting?" 

There's a pause -- 

Treville raises his *eyebrows* -- 

(I do so love watching you step in it, amant...) 

What -- 

"Sir." And Athos raises *his* eyebrow -- 

Porthos is *actually* growling at him, and -- 

"MOWR!" 

"That's *right*, mate," Porthos says. "What the bloody hell were you *thinking*? You *knew* he was a spirit-mage, you *knew* you had no back-up, you even knew he was a *shifter* --" 

"*Son*. I *also knew that he was weakened*." 

"Sir," Athos says. "You did not know if he was *physically* weakened... or did you?" 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me that this is where I throw one or both of you *through* one of the couches to make my point." 

"Oh, absolutely, *Daddy*," Porthos says. "Just as soon as you can do that in *public*, when the *sun's* up, without any number of people trying and *failing* to execute you until they finally happen on a method that sodding *takes*." And Porthos looks at him. 

And Athos *looks* at him. 

And -- "Brrt?" 

"What -- you *didn't* tell him about the immortality, Daddy?" 

"I told him about *Jason's* immortality --" 

Porthos moves Aramis to one arm solely to be able to smack Treville. 

"Ow?" 

"Stop making me bloody insubordinate!" 

"Hm. I -- well," Treville says, and turns to Aramis. "Jason is *capable* of sharing his -- again, purely functional -- immortality with his blood. It's a good idea to share blood with him just in general, no matter what *he* says about it --" 

(*Amant* --) 

"Yes, don't listen to his carping about it," Athos says, and straightens his clothes unnecessarily. "He's cursed and possessed in a distressing number of ways, but he's an entirely worthy, brilliant, loving --" 

(Athos --)

"He's everything a bloke should be, mate," Porthos says, and scratches behind Aramis's ear. "And that's even before you get to the fact that he's a *knight* and a *scholar*. Just -- who he is as a person would be enough, but who he is down to his soul? He's a good one." 

"Mrrt," Aramis says, with assurance. 

"Yeah, just right. You'll see. They bicker and fuss like fishwives, but they love each other. Just like parents should." 

And -- Treville is blushing like a *child* -- 

(If it makes you feel any better, the last time I felt burning in my face this severe was sometime before I *became* a fire-mage.) 

Right. Treville clears his throat. "I apologize." 

His sons look at him. Including Aramis. 

"I apologize *sincerely* and *deeply*, including for doing the thing which brought Aramis into our *lives*, which I *should* have been more cautious about, for all that neither of you would be happy if I *hadn't* done it, at all." 

"MEHR." 

"Uhh." 

"Hm," Athos says, and *both* he and Porthos glance nervously at Aramis.

Treville crosses his arms over his chest and waits. 

(Etrigan often invites friends over to watch conversations in our household, you know.) 

I'm *very* happy we can keep him entertained -- 

And then Aramis is back on Treville's shoulder -- apparently so he can have a better vantage point to glare at Porthos and Athos. "MROWR!" 

"Well, sons? What do you have to say to your brother?" 

"Mee!" Aramis smacks him good and proper for that, but -- 

"Uh -- well, see, that's just it, Aramis," Porthos says, and reaches for Aramis. "We're *extremely* happy Daddy brought you home --" 

"Mrowr! MROWR!" 

"Because, Aramis," Athos says, and smiles ruefully, "We trust our father -- and our *other* father -- precisely enough to know that, while we do *not* know you very well, *yet*?" 

"Once we *do* know you, mate? You'll be our brother in every possible way. And that's -- that's what we want," Porthos says, reaching out for one more moment before dropping his hands and pushing at the air a little in a gesture for peace. "Daddy doesn't bring just anyone home." 

"No," Athos says. "He does not." 

Aramis looks at all of them for long moments -- 

Digs into Treville's leathers with his claws -- 

Makes a soft, low, *frustrated* noise -- and then leaps down to the floor and dashes off at speed. 

Treville winces and lifts his nose -- at the speed Aramis is moving, in the *myriad* stenches of Paris, he'll be out of scent-range far too quickly. 

"Daddy..." And Porthos's hand is on his shoulder. 

"Sir, I -- were we..." 

"Shh, sons. We *had* to let Aramis know what we were about. As much of what we were about as *possible*," Treville says, and takes a breath. "And now we have to give him the chance to think about that." 

"And... come to his own conclusions, sir?" 

Treville hums and ruffles Athos's hair. "Cats will always be a sight more independent-minded than dogs, son. You have to give them their head." 

Athos nods as if that was an order from his *Captain*. Porthos... 

Porthos is sniffing his hands. Hm. 

"Son?" 

"Mm? Oh, I... he's a good-smelling cat, Daddy." 

Well, that's true enough. "Let's get you boys fed."


	4. Really, all sorts of children make their parents mud pies and the like.

Treville wakes up to the distinct and welcome sensation of warm fur on his chest, and smiles as he opens his eyes, reaching for Aramis -- 

And finding a blood-soaked mass of fur and *offal*.

Treville sits up with a *jerk*, swallowing a shout reflexively -- 

Aramis is sitting calmly at the foot of the bed, between Treville's ankles, grooming one paw in the most pointed way imaginable. 

The corpse currently leaking its way down Treville's chest and belly was once a squirrel, judging by the scents, and -- hm. 

"Aramis." 

Aramis doesn't stop grooming. 

Right. This -- 

Treville reaches gingerly for the linen he keeps by the bed and puts the savaged corpse in a nice little shroud -- 

"MROW!" And that was *indignant*. Which. 

"Son, what --" 

Aramis marches up the bed, unwraps the squirrel, and glares at him. 

Treville licks his lips. 

"Mrr." 

"I..."

Aramis looks pointedly at the corpse, and then at him. 

Treville... gets it. 

Horribly. 

Wait -- "Son... I'm not... hungry," he tries. 

Aramis growls at him. 

"But --" 

"MROW!" 

"I ate after -- after you left!" 

This growl absolutely shortens the lives of every rodent in France, and -- 

"You... talked to Cook?" 

"Mrrt. *Mehr*." 

Of *course* Cook told Aramis that Treville hadn't been eating as much as he used to. Cook isn't happy unless everyone eats like bloody *Porthos* -- but. "How's this, son -- we'll go down to the kitchen and scrounge up some meat for... both..." 

But. 

Aramis is backing away. 

*Looking* away. 

Looking -- and *smelling* -- *small*. Like... 

Like maybe this gift of food is a lot more meaningful than just... but wouldn't it be? For a cat who'd been starving?

Treville growls. "It's just that you were right all along, son." 

Aramis blinks and looks at him again -- 

Treville bites through the head of the squirrel and sucks down the sweet, fatty brain while he's not thinking about it. "Mm. I -- I definitely haven't been eating enough. This is -- a small meal. We should get something to go with it. For both of us, mm?" 

"Mee?" 

"That's *right*," Treville says, and damned well eats the squirrel.


	5. Definitely keep the dog occupied.

The next day, he eats breakfast with his sons -- all of them, and it's possible that he's chewing *at* Aramis, but he's not taking chances. 

Lunch is somewhat delayed due to Louis being a dithery *ponce*, but it can't be helped. He still manages to get back to the garrison -- and to Aramis -- before Aramis murders anything for him. They eat together. 

They -- 

They stay late, though. 

Again. 

And even though there's food -- 

And even though he *eats* it -- 

Much of it -- 

Aramis has a certain look in his eyes. A *worrying* look. 

Still, Treville has to stay late enough that it slips his mind altogether. 

Especially since he has to send Athos and Porthos to round out another unit -- 

But it's *mostly* a surveillance mission, and -- 

And he's allowed to worry about his boys. He's allowed. 

(Oh, yes, amant. You absolutely are...) 

*When* are you coming *home*? 

(I *promise* that I'm almost done --) 

With *what*? 

(And I promise that I'll tell you --) 

When you're done? I thought *we* were done with this sort of thing, lover, Treville says, and strips himself down for a wash. 

(Well... say that we *will* be done with this...) 

After this time? Treville grunts. Well, you know I trust you, but fuck, do I ever need you right now -- and always. 

Jason makes a small sound. 

Mm? 

(Never... never doubt that I need you in *every* moment, amant.) 

Treville smiles and washes himself down as quickly and efficiently as possible, feeling a bit like the Army recruit he used to be -- 

Like he'll turn just *so*, and Kitos-who-was-Honoré-then will be right there... 

But then he wouldn't have his lover in his soul. 

He growls and gives himself a shake. 

(I always wish to share memories with you...) 

Mm. Just... a moment of wistfulness, lover. I hate having an empty house. Dogs shouldn't be alone. 

(Agreed. And... look there.) 

Mm? And Treville turns to find Aramis looking up at him from just out of range of where Treville could reasonably splash. "And hello to you, son," Treville says, and grins. "Joining me tonight? You're more than welcome. To be frank, I could use the company." 

Aramis gives him a critical look. 

"Son?" 

And then there's a flare of spirit-magic -- far stronger, steadier, and more *vital* than it had been before -- and: (Jason Blood! Where!) 

(Here, mon grand...) 

"Mee!" And Aramis's fur is fluffed beyond all human *comprehension* -- 

Treville will *not* laugh -- 

Jason has no such compunctions. 

Aramis *growls* -- 

(Oh -- terribly sorry, Aramis. I truly did think -- for a moment -- that you were *calling* for me.) 

(You...) 

(Yes...?) 

A *flood* of spirit-magery -- 

Chuffing noises of hunter's frustration -- 

Treville drops to a crouch and offers his hand. "What's wrong, son, mm? Tell us; let us help..." 

(I -- want to know...) 

(We will tell you *everything*, mon grand...)

A *slam* of spirit-magery that rocks Treville on his *heels* -- Treville lets it wash over him and raises an eyebrow. 

(Why! Why can't I find Jason Blood!) 

Jason *coughs* laughter -- 

Treville licks his lips --

(Tell! You will tell me!) 

"That we will, son -- ah." Treville smiles ruefully. "Jason walks the spheres --" 

(Which are *numberless* in my estimation -- and the estimation of some few of the more wise and powerful beings I've come across in my travels --)

"-- and your *spirit*-magery? Does *not* leave *this* sphere -- yet. We'll be able to teach you how to reach beyond those boundaries, but you will almost certainly never be able to reach quite as far as *Jason* can reach for *you*," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

(Did that make sense...?) 

"Mrrt." 

(Good. Would you tell us... is it challenging for the *boy* in you to communicate --) 

"MROWR!" And the fur that *had* been settling into its usual configuration fluffs right back out again. 

"But we can leave that for the time being, son," Treville says, and goes back to washing himself down. "Stay with me tonight? We can talk about whatever you'd like." 

"Brrt?"

"Absolutely, son. You have to know what we're all about. Now where do you want me to begin?"


	6. Murderkitty only wants you to be happy, Treville.

Treville distinctly remembers drifting off to Aramis's entirely wonderful scents of comfort and contentment and the feel of Aramis stroking his forehead with his soft, fuzzy tail. 

Which makes it somewhat confusing to wake up face-to-face with a dead goat. 

A -- hm. 

Yes, that goat definitely had its throat slit in the room. 

And, when Treville checks, that is a *fascinatingly* artistic sprawl of goat innards all over Treville's legs. 

"Mehr...?" 

"I..." No, no, he has a child to think about here -- 

A child who is, even now, sitting at the -- one -- dry corner of the bed with a *hopeful* look on his beautiful little black face. 

Treville licks his lips. "So. I. This is a *wonderful* goat, son."

"Mee!" 

"I -- I mean. It's. It's *big*. And. It's a goat." 

Aramis purrs and purrs and uses some of that shifter-strength to nudge the corpse that much closer -- 

The goat's dry tongue slaps horribly against the linens -- 

Jason is *laughing* at him -- 

You *shut* it!

Jason doesn't stop laughing. 

And Aramis looks so... happy... 

Treville licks his lips again. "I... I promise to... eat more... I. Well. Why don't we enjoy this nice meal *together*, son?" 

"Brrt?" 

"Oh, I hate eating alone. Gives me... gives me terrible indigestion --" 

"Mrrt!" And Aramis jumps down off the bed -- and immediately jumps back up with the savaged carcass of a rat. 

"Well. I guess. I guess it's time for our meal. Then." 

Aramis purrs around the rat in his mouth. 

Aramis purrs throughout the entire meal. 

It makes everything worth it.


	7. As we know, all problems can be solved by eating.

He eats breakfast before he leaves the next day -- at Aramis. 

When Louis summons him to the palace, he stops by the garrison kitchen -- with Aramis -- to eat a plate of bacon, beans, and potatoes before they leave.

He even lets Cook add some green, leafy shite to his. 

Once *at* the palace -- with Aramis in tow, safely renamed Armand for the time being, just in case he *does* wish to become a Musketeer once they convince him to shift -- Treville charms the Queen into charming Louis into calling for a picnic. 

He eats like a pig *at* Aramis, thus encouraging Louis to order Richelieu to eat every possible food that will make his gout flare up. 

Aramis eats dainties from the Queen's fingers. 

And from her chest, too, which -- hm.

Well, it's not like Treville doesn't encourage the dog in him to try to get away with that sort of thing as often as possible. 

The dog, being a somewhat over-sized hunting hound with a weight fluctuating somewhere around ten and a half stone and a rather *menacing* mien... 

Does not get away with this sort of thing very often. 

The *dog* thinks it beneath their dignity to keep trying, but can usually be talked around with the reminder that the All-Mother, their *goddess*, tends to think dignity is worth just about as much as the shite ground into the cobbles on the street. 

Right now, under the mellow and unseasonably warm late autumn sunlight, with all the trees showing their colours in a magnificent and dazzling array -- 

Right now, Treville is well-fed, contented with all the scents of *Aramis's* contentment as he pads around on the Queen's generous bosom -- 

(Soft! Fragrant!) 

That it is, son, Treville says, and sighs, turning his head and taking a subtle sniff -- 

Yes, Richelieu is starting to hurt *abominably* from the cumulative effect of all the rich food. Especially in his legs and feet, judging by how he's shifting around over there. He's going to have an absolutely godawful time maintaining that courtly *dignity* on the way back to his carriage. 

Treville sighs again -- 

Toasts the Queen, who is feeding Aramis little tidbits of egg -- 

She giggles demurely and goes right back to adoring Aramis, as she should. 

Treville checks on Louis -- ordering Richelieu to eat something *pickled*, by the scents. 

Treville sighs *again* -- it's a damned good day to be alive. 

*Alive*. 

All is well. 

Jason purrs within their shared soul-space -- 

That's even better.


	8. When adopting a dog, it's important to understand that you'll need to spend time learning the best ways to train him.

Of course, on returning to the garrison, he finds a clutch of quartermasters at the foot of the stairs, with someone on his knees at their feet that Treville can't immediately recognize, because he's been beaten to within an inch of his life. 

The quartermasters are thunderous in that *particular* way... 

Treville takes another look at the beaten man, trying very hard to see if he can recognize him *fast* enough to come up with a reasonable answer to the very, very pointed question the quartermasters are asking him. To wit: "*When* can we murder him, sir?" 

Unfortunately, there are just too many facial injuries, and the scents of blood, pain, terror-sweat, and piss obscure everything which *would* be identifiable -- hm. He can work with that. 

Treville pulls on a moderately *exasperated* mien, crosses his arms over his chest -- careful not to dislodge the exceedingly well-fed cat from his shoulder -- and raises his eyebrows. "Men. When you *want* me to know who someone *is*, you do not *first* obliterate all identifying aspects of his *person*." 

The quartermasters blink nearly as one -- 

Look down at their victim -- 

And then Frederic -- who has the man by the hair -- gives him a shake. "Tell the Captain who you are and what you did, you swine!" 

The man responds to that by whimpering and spitting out -- 

Hm. There was part of a tooth in there. 

The man whimpers more. Wetly. 

The atmosphere of absolute *brutality* around the quartermasters thickens impressively -- inspiringly, really -- *but*. 

Treville has a job to do. "Frederic. *You* tell me who this arsehole is and --" 

"*Sir*! This is Puanteur from the *armorer*!" 

And, just like that, Treville's good day is over. "Say it quick and plain, son. What's the *damage*." 

"Our latest order of leathers -- the ones that just came in and haven't been distributed yet -- is fucked-up from hell to breakfast, sir! The stitching is shoddy, the armoring is cheap, the padding is --" 

"They're worthless," Treville says, and narrows his eyes to keep the gleam from showing overmuch. 

"*Yes*, sir! And that's not all --" 

"Tell me." 

"The gauntlets weren't made, at all! This little shit had some story about an ague at their smithy --" 

Treville growls low and *looks* at Puanteur. 

For long enough for the man to feel him and cringe just that slightest bit *more*. 

And -- "What else." 

"Sir..." 

"Frederic." 

"Sir," Frederic says, standing straight and nodding -- 

The other three quartermasters follow suit -- 

"Sir, this little shit's been undercutting the other Paris armorers for months -- he ran our other usual fellow out of business --" 

"Can we put him back *in* business...?" 

The quartermasters blink -- and then Frederic beams like a new day. "Like if we, just as an example, fine *these* arseholes for damages and breach of contract and such -- and then put that money to the best possible use, sir?"

Treville -- shows his teeth. Even he can't call that a smile. "Put it in motion, lads. But first, round up *everyone* with a stake in this fuck's *former* place of business. I want them in our dungeons by dinner *tomorrow*." 

"Sir! I took the liberty of dispatching a few units to start that process while you were still at the palace --" 

"Excellent initiative, son," Treville says, and claps Frederic on the shoulder. "Do *not* do *this*," he says, and points to Puanteur, "to any of the stockholders."

"Yes, sir --" 

"*Yet*." And Treville shows his teeth again. 

His men growl laughter for that -- 

"What *can* we do with the muckety-mucks, sir?" 

Treville rolls his head on his neck and lets himself think, for a moment, of just how long his men are going to have to go without properly-maintained armor -- 

They always order *ahead* of time, of course, but -- 

But. 

Treville's growling again. "Frighten them, boys," he says, and looks the quartermasters in the eye, one man at a time. "Show them their deaths in your eyes. With some of them -- not all, but some -- I'm going to have to play the courtier a lot more than is remotely natural, and that means I'm going to need you all to get these fucks... in the right frame of mind," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"Yes, *sir*!" 

Treville nods once. "We all have work to do. *Dismissed*." 

They march *right* off, dragging Puanteur behind them in the dirt -- though Phalène does pause to tip his hat to Aramis. 

That's -- 

Well. 

Treville reaches up and scritches his chest-fur before heading up to his office. 

Aramis chirrups while they're still on the stairs -- 

A moment, son. We'll talk when we're alone -- 

(Talk this way!) 

Or we can do that, Treville says, humming and giving Aramis another scritch. In answer to your question: You can't manage anything -- anything at all -- without delegating at least a few tasks to others -- 

(This is known!) 

Right you are, Treville says, and walks briskly down the catwalk. In any reasonably well-run regiment, questions of outfitting and supply are delegated to the quartermasters, who, if they're at *all* competent, can work all the miracles any military man could ever need -- 

Another chirrup -- 

Treville opens the door and steps in -- 

Closes it *behind* them -- 

Aramis digs his claws into Treville's *ear* -- 

"Right you are, son. And I'll tell you precisely what Laurent -- Athos's blood-father; my eldest, dearest brother; and my *predecessor* -- told *me*: The very best quartermasters are *born* that way --" 

(This is not a good answer!) 

"-- because there is no one on this *earth* who can train *anyone* to have a nose for good bargains while also having a nose for quality while also having the backbone to stand up for themselves while also having the *presence* to make themselves *felt* while *also* having a head for figures like the most *esoteric* of mathematicians while *also* being the kind of politician who wins *wars* while *also* being the kind of *killer* who *ends* wars," Treville says, and tosses his hat on the rack. 

Aramis huffs. 

"Mm?" 

(My good *mother* --) But that turns into a low, angry growl as Aramis leaps from Treville's shoulder onto the desk -- and begins to groom his shoulder aggressively. 

Treville blinks -- 

Jason tugs on Treville's *awareness* -- 

You're heard, lover, but -- 

(We will, perhaps, have more luck coming to these things... obliquely.) 

I... don't want to listen to that. 

(And neither does your dog, yes, I know. But.) And Jason sends the feel of a roughly-firm *caress*. 

Well, that helps. 

(Good boy.) 

That helps more. Come home. 

(Tomorrow.) 

Treville grins -- Yes? 

(If my business associate isn't finished by then...) 

He'll regret it, lover...? 

(*Profoundly*.) 

Treville rumbles. That's what we like to hear. Let's see what I can do to make our cat feel a little better. 

(Oh, yes...) And Jason dims within him again -- though not by very much, at all. 

Treville sits at the desk and starts outlining notes for the proclamations he'll have to draft to get the armorer's licenses revoked -- 

To get his business razed to the *ground* -- metaphorically. 

*Their* people will be taking over everything salvageable and putting it all to work for the King's Musketeers. 

Their people will... mm. 

In truth, this was long overdue. The fact that they *hadn't* had pet armorers to go with everything else had already been a worry for Alaire, when *he* was the chief quartermaster under Laurent -- before he'd 'retired' into Treville's direct service. 

Alaire had, more than once in Treville's hearing, suggested taking *all* of their vendors in hand -- to the point of ensuring that the King's Musketeers were their *only* -- not just primary -- clients. 

The man had always had a point, but -- 

(But what?) And Aramis is batting -- gently -- at the pot of ink. 

Treville blinks -- and forcibly reminds himself that he's sharing close quarters with a powerful spirit-mage who can and *will* look in on his thoughts whenever he *wants* to. 

Aramis looks at him impatiently, paw raised over the ink pot. 

"Please don't knock that over, son." 

The look gets baleful. 

"I -- am going to answer your question. Right now: We didn't listen to Alaire because Laurent was always of a mind to keep the King's Musketeers from stomping *tyrannically* all over the French populace." 

Aramis growls. 

"No, I -- of course we *aren't* tyrants, but --" 

Aramis's paw gets closer to the ink pot -- 

Treville coughs. "Which is just to say that I've already begun... rethinking Laurent's stance --" 

Aramis's paw quivers threateningly. 

"Son --" 

Aramis's eyes *glow* --

"Right you are; we'll grind these arseholes into the cobbles." 

"Mehr," Aramis says, and sits calmly on the desk again. 

He doesn't actually move *away* from the ink pot, though. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You're a wonderful young man." 

"Mow!" 

"You're *also* a wonderful little cat." 

Aramis flicks his tail at him -- and lies down with his arse pointed towards him. 

Treville laughs softly and gets back to work. 

And -- keeps working. 

Reports come in throughout the afternoon and evening as their dungeons get more and more populated, and -- it's not even that Treville has to check on the prisoners.

He doesn't -- yet. It's his job, tonight, to let them sit there and stew for as long as he can possibly get away with it -- which, in fact, translates to: 'Until sometime after he eats his dinner tomorrow, but not very *long* after.' 

No, right now he's still working on those proclamations, and all the correspondence he has to send to the various mid-level Paris functionaries whose toes he'll be stepping on, and the various minor nobles who'll come crawling out of the woodwork to protest the treatment of this one, or that one -- 

He is a politician tonight, and his candles are leaving the sort of wax stains that *Laurent* would never allow -- 

"Mrow?" 

"Mm? Ah. He was neat, punctilious, moral, *honourable*, and *correct*." 

"MEHR!" 

"He was also the most wonderfully *terrifying* deviant I've ever known in my *life*," Treville says, and *looks* at Aramis, who -- 

Has paused in his systematic destruction of the hat-rack. Thoughtfully. 

"Yes?" 

"Brrt?" 

Treville wags his head a little -- 

(You must answer!) 

Oh -- "I will, son, but I have to *think* about the question --" 

(*No* --) 

"I truly do," Treville says, and smiles ruefully again. "Because, on the one hand, you could *easily* say that I was -- and am -- more of a deviant than Laurent ever was, solely because Laurent never once made love with anyone under the age of twenty-five, whereas I spent *many* years *habitually* making love to boys and young men." 

(Oh.) 

"On the other hand, you can't say anything of the kind, because there is the content of Laurent's *fantasy* life to be considered. Laurent's detailed, exacting, *beautiful* fantasy life -- which absolutely included any number of warm, filthy, *sticky* dreams about me and our brother Kitos -- when he was Honoré, and when we were both seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, and fourteen." 

(And... other boys?) 

"No, son. Just us." 

(You are so certain?) 

"I am. Laurent was the single most passionate man I have *ever* known... but he felt no *sexual* desire whatsoever for *anyone* he did not feel intellectual and *emotional* *love* for *first*." 

Aramis stares at him. 

"We didn't get it, either." 

"... mrrt?" 

"Not at all. Not ever. We were all *stunned* when he fell madly in love with the woman his parents arranged for him to marry, and... well. Laurent and Marie-Angelique, together, were deviants by *any* measure, son." 

(What measure!)

"They invited the whole pack into their bed --" 

(This is nothing --) 

"Including the *dog*," Treville says, and shifts his head. 

The dog whuffs a greeting, because the Aramis-cat is obviously very intelligent and attractive and a good boy, and lives with them now -- 

But the Aramis-cat hisses at them and fluffs! Fluffs big!

The part of the dog which has been made larger by being bound to Treville knows that the Aramis-cat isn't *truly* twice as large as he was before, but -- 

Treville reaches from within and suggests apologizing to the Aramis-cat. 

Hm. For... startling? 

Treville reminds the dog, from within, that cats -- even shifter-cats -- often respond poorly to being startled. 

Yes, this makes sense. The dog shifts the rest of the way and croons a soft, soft apology-song. 

The Aramis-cat raises a paw with all of his very good claws extended, and -- 

No, no, the dog croons. You are Aramis-cat. I am the dog! We are pack!

The Aramis-cat stops hissing, but keeps his claws out. (Why! Why are we pack!) 

Oh! The dog reaches for the boy in Aramis-cat, because that's who's talking, and finds out that *his* name is Aramis, too -- 

And that he's *almost* fully-grown, but still a pup -- 

And that he doesn't know how to get out and play and walk and be, not like Treville -- 

The dog will teach! He reaches more fully, more *firmly* -- 

And that's when Aramis-cat launches himself at the dog's *face* -- 

And Treville forces them to shift back and catches Aramis by the scruff, holding him carefully and offering his free arm to savage. "Apologies, son. The dog reached for the boy in you because the boy in you reached for *him*." 

"MROW!" 

"I'll teach him better -- but." 

Aramis growls *viciously*, drawing blood with absolutely *all* of his claws at once. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I won't push you. *None* of us will push you -- not even the dog, now that he knows that this hurts you --" 

(Then -- then *what*!) 

"You're not a cat, just like you're not a human --" 

The growl gets absolutely *violent* -- but. 

"You're a spirit-mage *shifter*, son -- and everything else you are, everything else you *were*, and everything else you'll become? Will flow from *there* --" 

(You are ignorant! I am my *mother's* son! I am *Aramis*, and *no* one else, and I will not stay with you until you -- you...) 

Treville smiles and sits down in his chair, setting Aramis down on the desk, nice and close to the pot of ink. "I'm my father's son, by the by." 

Aramis glares at him. 

"I'm my father's son, my mate's mate, my brothers' brother, my sons' father..." Treville shakes his head. "The order of those things shifts and changes with all sorts of variables. In the end, though... I'm just as *much* those things as I am a dog -- and I'm a dog while I'm *being* those things." 

The glare doesn't soften one iota -- but Aramis doesn't move. 

Treville inclines his head. "I -- we -- want to know you, son. We want you to be a part of us --" 

(Your *dog* has already *claimed* me.) 

"-- even more than you already are."

Aramis flicks his tail. 

Treville folds his hands together on the desk and leans in, just a little. "Haven't we shared a bed, son? Haven't we shared meat and a warm fire? Haven't we shared the warmth and comfort of a good, safe den --" 

(Do not manipulate me!) 

"You've taken care of me, son. You do your damnedest to take care of me every time I give you half a *chance* to. And I think I know you well enough now --" 

(You know *nothing*!) 

"-- to know that, once you *do* have the opportunities to do so, you'll be taking care of my other sons and Jason, as well," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis turns and grooms his shoulder. 

For... an extended period of time. 

*Vigorously* -- 

"Son..." 

(All things have a price, Treville. This, my good mother taught me.) 

And that... says more than *one* thing about who Aramis's mother might have been -- 

And Aramis is glaring at him again just that quickly. 

Treville gazes steadily back. "Give me," he says, "the opportunity to prove myself to you, son. I will always treat such chances with the honour and gratitude and *fervour* they *deserve*." 

Aramis blinks rapidly -- 

Shivers -- 

"Mrrt." 

"Yes, I thought that would make sense to you. You're exactly the sort of young man I've always loved the most, son." 

(To fuck?) 

Treville smiles wryly. "I spent a significant fraction of my youth with my nose wide open for mouthy, intelligent pretty boys with plump little arses, yes. Especially the ones who knew their way around a blade or two --" 

(*You* do not know if I *am* pretty, at *all*.) 

"And that's not what I want of you... son," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows again. 

Aramis studies him for long moments.

Treville leaves himself open for it -- 

Breathes *deeply* when Aramis floods him with spirit-magery -- 

When Aramis searches him thoroughly, *specifically*, and *quickly* -- 

Though. "Whenever you'd like, son, we can begin your lessons on how to do that more subtly --" 

(I was being *polite* -- I.) 

"Mm?" 

(You -- you enjoy being the 'Daddy' to young boys.) 

"I do." 

(You did *not* bring any of those boys *home*.) 

"I did not. I made love, and I dallied, and --" 

(You never lied, you never promised, and you never told *tales*,) Aramis says, and studies him with seemingly every sense he *has*. 

Treville leaves himself open -- 

(Your Porthos calls you Daddy.) 

"He does." 

(You do not stop him -- does he *know* of your many young boys?) 

"He does," Treville says, and smiles wryly again. "We've spoken about it with... a chagrin-inducing degree of extensiveness. A part of me is the kind of father who only wants the *opportunity* to take his boy whoring for the first -- *several* -- times. Other parts of me... desire other things entirely." 

"MEHR!" 

This time, the flood of spirit-magery is *precisely* like being slapped vigorously and repeatedly. 

In the *brain*. 

Treville leaves himself *open* for it -- 

(You feel the same about your Athos!) 

"I do." 

(You -- you *raised* your Athos!) 

"I did." 

(You lie to them! You lie and you -- you tell *tales*!) 

"Son --" 

(They do not know the *truth* of you!) 

"Son, I --" 

(Your *children* do not know how their *father* *feels*!) 

"I *can't* tell them --" 

(I. Have known fathers like this,) Aramis says, quietly, and turns away from Treville. 

And lies down. 

And says... absolutely nothing else. 

"Son..." 

No response. 

Not -- 

Not even a *tail*-flick -- 

(Well. As I've said, I vastly enjoy watching you step in it --) 

*Jason*!

(You may need to be quick about stepping *out* of *this*, amant.) 

Bloody *how*? 

(I'm not *entirely* certain, but it *may* involve convincing your *youngest* son that you will not let your *older* sons stew in ignorance for the rest of their lives.) 

I -- 

(Or -- well, for very much longer, at all.) 

Treville winces -- I can't. I can't lose them. 

(Perhaps...) 

*What*? 

(Perhaps we might trust in the fact that they *absolutely* feel the same about *you* --) 

*Jason* -- I -- I can't *use* that --

(No, you *can't*. You never *could*. But what you *can* do is remember that you have had lengthy, *detailed*, *thorough* conversations with Athos *and* Porthos about your fixations, predilections, and fundamental sexual *makeup* --) 

And. They... know who I am. 

(They've *known* who you are for a very, very long time. It *could* be said that *Porthos* knew who you were before he was *born*.) 

I -- 

(You don't want to *count* that. I *know*. You think it's *cheap*. I remind you, amant... that that very cheap thing is the *exceedingly* literal blood in your veins -- and Porthos's own.) 

I. Right you are, Treville says, and gives himself a shake. You agree with Aramis. 

(Hm. Well...) 

You *don't*? 

(I rather tend to protect -- 'protect' -- my loved ones from myself at all *costs*, amant. But, if I recall correctly, *you* tend to have things to *say* about that habit of mine.) 

Treville coughs. I -- tomorrow, you said? 

(*Tomorrow*. Now reassure your --) 

Our. 

(-- child. Hm. Well -- hm.) 

Treville hums and sends the feel of a tipped hat and a grope. 

(You *arse*.) 

Yours, lover, Treville says, and -- when he focuses again, Aramis is giving him a look which manages to be both bleak and curious. It -- 

"Oh -- son. You're heard." 

Aramis says nothing. 

Treville nods once. "Jason was just talking some sense into me, and --" Treville laughs ruefully. "He pointed out -- entirely correctly -- that my boys *already* know everything there is to know about me, because I've *told* them. In *detail*. With illustrative shared memories. While we were and were *not* drinking." 

"Mowr." 

"Except for that thing, yes. But -- I gave them all the clues. I wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't pieced it together, yet -- they tend to think the absolute best of me, without any provocation whatsoever -- but I also wouldn't be surprised if they *had*." 

"Mehrr...?" 

"No, son, I *will* talk about it with them. I'm going to lay it all out for them, and -- share myself. The way I always should have done. The way..." Treville closes his eyes and breathes -- 

And breathes -- 

And, after a moment, he has them: The remembered scents of his father. Every last one of them, from his sweat to his steel to his gunpowder to his leather to his musk -- always, always present around Treville's mother. 

Every good scent. 

When he has them -- when he's drunk on them, just a little -- he opens his eyes again, and smiles at Aramis. "I would've done anything to know my father's heart -- including the things which I *knew* would disturb me. I... I would never say my boys love me any less." 

(This is *good*. I do not wish to live with a fool.) 

Treville tips the hat he isn't wearing. "I will always, always do my level best to learn from the wise, son." 

(My good mother said.) But Aramis stops there. 

Stares down at the desk -- 

Lashes his *tail* -- 

Treville reaches for Aramis's beautiful face. "I always want to know your thoughts, son. Whatever they are, wherever they go." 

(I...) 

"Mm?" 

Aramis makes a soft, hurt sound -- but scent-marks Treville's fingers and curls up on the desk. (I will think. On what to say.) 

"Right you are, son," Treville says, and gets back to work.


	9. Nothing to see here!

The moon is high in the sky by the time they get back from the garrison, Aramis tucked behind Treville on Lisle, and Treville's escort rigidly awake on approximately two gallons of tea to either side of them. 

Treville gives them leave for the next day, gratefully gives the sleepy stableboys the right to care for and coddle poor, placid Lisle -- 

Makes a note to tell Aramis stories about Éventreur -- 

Maybe introduce him to Éventreur when they next head out to the country -- hm. 

Treville *starts* to ask Aramis how he feels about more spirited horses, but -- Aramis is absolutely passed right out in Treville's arms. 

Well enough. They can *both* sleep tonight. 

Treville greets the night staff -- which, for some reason, includes *Cook* tonight -- 

Cook doesn't actually say anything, as opposed to nodding at Aramis in Treville's arms, and then nodding at *Treville*, which. 

Treville's going to assume one or both of them did something right. For now, he takes himself upstairs -- 

He gives himself the world's *most* perfunctory wash -- 

And he puts himself to bed, with Aramis on the pillow next to his. 

(You do realize this is going to lead to Aramis sleeping on my *face*, don't you?) 

You have to do something to keep those beardless cheeks of yours toasty, lover. 

Jason snorts. (Sleep *well*.) 

Treville sends a kiss --


	10. Murderkitty *only wants to love you*.

Treville wakes up with a remarkably delicious taste in his mouth. A... 

A *meaty* taste, but also -- 

Is that gravy? 

Was he dreaming of stew? 

Treville licks his lips and tries to get back down into the dream -- and then there's a small, soft, *dripping* paw in his mouth. 

It. 

The paw is covered in gravy. 

The paw... 

Aramis -- 

Aramis is spreading the gravy all over his tongue, teeth, and palate.

With his paw. 

Treville opens his eyes just in time for Aramis to pull his paw out and turn back to the *massive* pot of stew -- 

Which he'd somehow dragged up onto the bed -- 

He dips his paw in and turns back to Treville. 

"I -- son." 

"Mee!" 

"Yes, I -- good morning to you... too, but -- *mmph* --" 

There is -- well, it's really delicious stew. 

That's a nice, thick gravy -- 

Lots of fat for an excellent degree of -- 

Aramis is spreading his paw around again. Massaging it in. 

Son. 

"Mrrt?" And Aramis is going back for more stew -- 

Treville takes a *breath* -- "Son, I can eat the stew on my own --" 

(You are very tired!) 

"It. I. Son -- *fugh* -- mmgh --" 

The thing is, cats are very fast. 

Shifter-cats are even faster. 

Still, that's extremely good stew. 

(Cook said you liked it very much!) 

He's giving Cook a raise. 

(I added a few things to make you stronger --) 

Oh fuck. I mean -- good? Good!

Aramis purrs and massages his tongue a little before pulling out again -- 

"So -- I... what? Did you add?" 

Aramis purrs and purrs and gathers up a *big* dollop -- 

Treville considers and rejects and considers and *rejects* backing *away* -- "Mm?"

Aramis waits for him to open his mouth. 

Treville sweats. 

Aramis sits on Treville's chest and pats at his mouth with his dry paw. (Open!) 

*Fuck* -- 

(You... don't want the stew? I... brought it here for you...) 

Treville's bollocks try to return to their ancestral home and he opens his *mouth*. Please! Feed me!

"Mee!" And in goes that paw -- 

Around and *around* goes the paw -- 

And around -- 

So... about what you added to the stew? 

(Squirrel! I only caught three, but --) 

Fuck -- 

(-- the livers will make you healthy and vital --) 

I -- 

(-- and so will all four of the rat hearts!) 

Treville doesn't whimper. He's a King's Man, and he is stronger than that. 

He does, however, attempt to push Aramis's paw out of his mouth with his tongue -- 

Aramis glares at him. And slowly, slowly starts to extend his claws. 

Inside Treville's mouth. 

It -- 

Treville puts his tongue back where it belongs. 

Aramis continues glaring for another moment -- 

Treville's stomach grumbles. 

"Mow!" And Aramis pulls his paw out, drags the stew-pot closer, and begins feeding Treville with a will. 

Treville has to admit, the chewy-crunchy little tails add a certain je ne sais quoi.


	11. It's important to spend time in the bosom of family.

Treville wakes up with Aramis curled on his belly and the distressingly denuded stew-pot on the floor beside the bed. 

Aramis is sleeping the sleep of the just, and -- Treville doesn't remotely have the heart to wake him, yet. He stays put and reaches for his pack, the way he normally doesn't allow himself to -- 

(*Why* don't you let yourself do it, Daddy?) 

I -- 

(Yes, sir, we can both *feel* in this moment that you *wish* to do so --) 

(All the bloody *time* --) 

You -- 

His sons are glaring at him. 

*All* of his sons are glaring at him, because Aramis is awake and joining in -- 

And Treville's heart is full. So -- full. 

(Aww... *Daddy*.) 

(You... just called to tell us you loved us?) 

Treville strokes Aramis's lovely face... 

Aramis scent-marks him with a *curious* expression on that face -- 

I *mostly* called to see how you were doing, and to spend a bit of time together while I cuddled shamelessly with our Aramis, who was not *yet* awake -- 

(Oh, *that's* nice --) 

(Yes, truly -- though.) 

(Hunh.) 

(Yes, I... hm.) 

Treville blinks. Sons?

(No, no, sir, it's nothing of any... import,) Athos says, in the most atavistically worrying way *possible* -- 

Son -- 

('s just, you know.) 

Porthos? What is it? 

(Of course... you mustn't feel as though you *need* to cuddle with us more than you already do --) 

(Right, that right there --) 

Oh fuck. Oh -- you -- do you -- are you saying -- no, wait, Treville says, and takes a breath. 

And checks on Aramis -- 

Aramis is resting his head on his -- impressively well-groomed, considering -- paws, and waiting for Treville to fuck up even more. Well enough. 

Sons. I. 

(Sir?) 

(What is it, Daddy?) 

Aramis lashes his tail *slowly*. 

*Right*. I spend a *phenomenally* large amount of time and effort keeping the doors to the kennels locked, *especially* at night, because otherwise the dog in me would take over; herd everyone into a big, messy pile; and cuddle you all to within an inch of your lives -- 

(Bloody stop *doing* that!) 

(I truly must agree with Porthos, sir --) 

Sons -- 

(Daddy, you know *exactly* how starved I *always* am for physical contact --) 

(And I am *precisely* the *same* --) 

And I would give that to you both in an *eyeblink*, sons -- but. That. That isn't everything that would happen. And I...

But the words stop coming. They -- no. *No*. Treville won't stop. He won't bloody -- 

(Daddy? What...) 

(Oh.) 

Fuck.

(*Oh* -- you're saying. Daddy...)

Athos clears his throat *precisely* the way Laurent used to -- 

Precisely as *sharply*, as -- as *demanding* of *immediate* attention -- 

Treville has to do *better* -- 

(I'm *listening*, brother, but --) 

(I believe, Porthos, that our father is... less than aware of our own conversations. On this matter.) 

(Oh. Well.)

Treville blinks. What...

(Uhh...) 

(Hm.) 

Sons...? 

(Well, first off, Daddy, I think it's uh... *fair* to say that we should all have this conversation --) 

(These conversations, *plural* --) 

(Right, that, brother, thanks --) 

(Of course, brother.) 

(Anyway, we should be having these conversations when we're all in the same *house*. And uh. On the same sphere. *Jason*.) 

Jason coughs. (Yes? Yes. I'm here --) 

(Yes, Jason, you are,) Athos says, (but where *is* here?) 

Jason walks through a smudge in the air that appears on the far side of the bed, dressed in abnormally *neat* mail and wool and carrying any number of parcels. 

Hm. That... 

No, wait. Jason just arrived back home, sons. Laden with... things. Lots of things. 

(Gifts, truly. Ah -- yes. I'm here. And available for any and all conversation whenever you both wish --) 

(All *right*, then. We'll be home just as soon as we finish hunting down these arseholes --) 

Wait, what? You're on a *surveillance* mission -- 

(Very true, sir,) Athos says. (However, during the course of our surveillance, we happened to witness a remarkably brutal --) 

(And, to be fair, right creative --) 

(-- murder. We've been taking the extension of our original purview as read, sir.) 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Aramis pads up Treville's chest and bats at Treville's mouth. 

Hm, I -- Aramis feels I have more to say -- and I do -- 

(Yes, sir?) 

(Yeah, Daddy?) 

I love you. I love both of you with all of my myself. I would do *anything* to make you both *happy*. I would do anything to keep you both from *sadness* and *pain* -- 

(Aw --) 

*Wait*. Please. 

And, for a moment, the shared glance between Athos and Porthos is entirely tangible. It -- 

His *boys* -- 

His beautiful -- 

(Yours, sir.) 

I -- 

(Always, Daddy. *Always*.) 

Treville pants -- and doesn't manage to fight back enough of his growl. 

(It's all *right*, Daddy --) 

*This*, sons: I will do everything in my *power* to avoid doing so much as making you *uncomfortable* with me. I need you both *with* me. I need you *here* with me, now and forever. And I will always, *always* do everything necessary to achieve that. 

(We did know that, sir.) 

(Yeah, Daddy.) 

(In truth, it's one of many things which guided our decision-making in the aforementioned conversation.) 

(Oh, yeah, yeah -- uh. Well...) 

(Mm? Oh.) 

Treville raises an eyebrow helplessly. 

*Jason* raises an eyebrow with *delighted* curiosity. 

*Aramis* lies back down on Treville's chest and strokes Treville's belly with his tail. Patiently. 

Treville pets him -- 

Also patiently -- 

(Right, sorry, Daddy. It's like this: The fact that we know what you're about --) 

(-- and what you have *always* been... about...) 

(-- and the fact that we know what we *like* in a bloke --) 

(-- or two individuals who happen to be our parents, as the case may be --) 

(-- and as it were, yeah. And also the fact that we know that *both* of you are the type to shove your cocks in scary little gaols --) 

(-- or, perhaps, sausage-grinders.) 

(... Stop talking now, brother.) 

(As you say, brother. Do go on,) Athos says, and his obnoxious smile is entirely tangible. 

(Right, where was I -- don't say a bloody *word*, Athos --) 

(*Cock*-prisons, Porthos,) Jason says, helpfully, as he divests himself of some few of his packages and parcels. 

Aramis is ignoring him for the moment -- 

Which is *fascinating* -- 

(Right, yeah, cock-prisons. Anyway, we *know* you'd *both* kick yourself in the bollocks *repeatedly* if it meant the two of us would be even a *little* bit happier, and -- all of the rest of it, too. All right? We know it. And I, for one, had been going with the idea that you were both maybe... doing a little of that already.) 

(Treville absolutely was,) Jason says -- 

*Hey* -- 

(But not you, Jason?) 

Jason smiles wryly. (I prefer a nice, cold, strangle with a moderately-sharply-spiked shadow.) 

There's a pause. 

A long pause -- 

Aramis is staring at Jason -- 

(I. I regret asking that question,) Porthos says. 

(Yes, brother, but do you regret it because you're uncomfortable knowing about our parents' *desires*.) 

(Oh! Nah. Just, you know. The spikes, and such. You?) 

(I can't help but find myself curious about this particular use of the shadows --) 

(You know what, you're not allowed to talk for the rest of the day, Athos.) 

(Even for the mission?) 

(We've signs for that, mate. Gag yourself with that kerchief.) 

(Noted. Until later, all.) 

There are times when there's nothing Treville wants more than to be in the field with his sons, warring and riding and warring even more -- 

And, of course, having a front-row seat to how his -- slightly -- more sane men respond to them. 

(It can get right entertaining when they start looking longingly for escape routes, Daddy.) 

Treville sighs happily. I love you both so much.

(And we love *you* -- stop fading into the shadows, Jason.) 

Jason snorts. (I don't get a chance to *rest*? I just got *home*, Porthos --) 

(*We* didn't tell you to leave. What are *you* thinking about all of this, eh? Were you the one to get Daddy to talk? Why didn't *you* talk?) 

(I...) Jason laughs ruefully, uses the shadows to change near-instantly into his silk pajamas, and crawls into bed beside Treville. 

Aramis immediately goes to walk all over him and sniff -- 

Treville takes the opportunity to roll onto his side and bury his face in that long, thick, dark-red hair. 

Jason sighs. (I -- forgive me. I'm buried in affection at the moment and I've lost the ability to *think*.) 

(So you *won't* fight when Athos and I institute the family puppy-piles.) 

(Not even a *little*. I -- it was Aramis who got Treville talking about *this* aspect of his feelings for you boys, and Aramis who rather put Treville on the spot when Treville was insisting that he 'couldn't' tell either of you how he truly felt --) 

(*Oi*!) 

(Quite. Aramis's reaction was much the same --) 

(But yours *wasn't*? Wait -- I know this one. You were both thinking of *protecting* us *while* thinking that we'd both run like bloody cowards just because we made you *hard*.) 

Jason winces. 

Well, when you put it that way, son, it sounds like we *both* need a good, solid kick in the bollocks, Treville says. 

(I --) 

(I will help you teach them,) Aramis says, with a rough edge to his voice, a *cautious* edge -- and then he growls and stands tall on Jason's chest. (I will help you teach them *better*.) 

Porthos grunts -- and his grin in their shared soul-space is utterly blinding in its tangibility. 

It -- 

Aramis is blinking and dancing a little on his paws -- (I -- I --) 

(I like *that*, mate. I -- brother?) 

Aramis stops dancing -- (Yes? You mean this thing?) 

(I do.) 

(Why!) 

(Well, let's see: You're tough, you're brave, you hate lies -- especially in your *pack* -- and you work to *end* them when you find them --) 

(This -- this is *necessary* --) 

(Too right, it is. You also take care of your *people*. You've been keeping our Daddy together while we've all been gone, keeping the dog in him and the dog he *is* safe and warm and close --) 

(I -- but I have not -- and I am not very *friendly*!) 

Porthos laughs hard. (Brother. You *have* to have noticed by *now* that Daddy doesn't even know how to *function* if you put someone *nice* around him.) 

Aramis stares. 

And stares down at Jason -- 

Jason raises an eyebrow *slowly* -- 

Aramis turns to look at *him* -- 

"Yes, son?" 

(I -- I want to know more about your *mate*!) 

Porthos guffaws.

Treville licks his lips -- and grins. "Well, for one thing, she laughed just like that -- a lot. Usually when I was making an arse of myself --" 

(She was unfriendly?) 

(She was *belligerent*, brother. And loud. And full of just... all the jokes and laughter in the world. Also? Really sodding violent. Wise and loving and vengeful and careful and mean and.) Porthos shivers through the bond they all share. (Daddy can say it better.) 

I doubt that, son, Treville says. But -- she was perfect, in every way. She would've taken one look at *you*, Aramis, and dragged you home -- 

(I will not be dragged!) 

\-- by the *scruff*, and she would've fed you, and cared for you, and told you stories, and, when she caught herself being *too* loud and doggish for you? She would've damned well introduced you to a few of the cats of her acquaintance. 

(Oh. Oh.) 

Mm?

(Cats -- other cats -- liked her?) 

Treville reaches over and strokes behind Aramis's ear. We didn't know any shifter-cats, but... yes. She was an excellent communicator. Her dog helped with that, just as my dog helps me.

(I want to speak more with your dog!) 

That can be arranged, son. Give me just -- 

(We're good, Daddy,) Porthos says. (We're uh. We're a lot better than good, actually. Go on, Athos. Tell 'em.) 

(Are you quite sure I can be allowed the privilege of speech?) 

(Not at all, but do it anyway.) 

Jason laughs softly -- and reaches with his power, obviously helplessly, for just bit more of their sons.

Treville's heart is *full* -- 

(We can feel that. We can feel both of you, and it is... so much.) 

I want to give you *everything*, Athos -- 

(I understand, in this moment, that you both always *have* wanted to give us everything. And... we both know now, far better than we ever did, what 'everything' means.) 

(It's right soothing, really. Considering the fact that *we've* wanted to give *you* both everything... well. You know now. Don't you?) 

Treville shudders and *reaches* -- 

And there is Olivier, not Athos, smiling up at Treville from where Treville has -- gently -- knocked him to the lawn for the sake of a lesson, for the sake of a *spar* -- 

There is Olivier, and *his* eyes are full, and he's offering everything, absolutely everything, and in that moment Treville *knows* it -- 

Knows that *look* -- 

And, in that moment and many others after, tamps himself *down*. 

Treville fights back a *groan* -- 

But Jason gasps beside him -- 

Treville seeks within him reflexively -- 

And finds Jason *feverishly* poring over one of his memories of Porthos. 

Porthos learning how to use the blood-magery within him -- 

Porthos learning how to *strengthen* the blood-magery within him as he and Jason prowl through the Paris night -- 

As Porthos kills a footpad quickly and viciously, stealing his spilled blood and every last bit of the *violent* energy of his death on Jason's instructions -- careful to leave the *moment* of death for the one being more powerful than *any* deity. 

And Porthos is there in *all* their minds, dark with *force* and vital, steaming, hot and wild with the hunt -- and so thrilled to have *learned*, so thrilled to have *excelled*, so -- hungry. 

So hungry for *more*.

From his Teacher. 

That...

Jason is, in this moment, all but *sweating* out thick, touch-starved shadows that are filling the room -- 

The *house* -- 

That distant yelp sounded a *lot* like his chambermaid Justine -- 

Treville barks for attention.

"I." 

"Lover. Did you somehow *miss* that before?" 

Jason licks his lips. Twice. 

There are even *more* shadows -- 

Everywhere -- 

Aramis is standing *up* on Jason's chest and reaching up to *bat* at them -- 

Oh, no, wait --

But, before he can say anything, Aramis has become a distressingly *compact* shadow-wrapped package hanging in mid-air. 

"Lover." 

(Right, well, I think you're both in the right frame of mind now -- Aramis, brother, try not to rip their bollocks off when you punish them for this; we're going to need those.) 

(Quite,) Athos says. (Until later.) 

Treville sends rough, *firm* caresses before he can *stop* himself -- 

(Nice one, that...) 

*Fuck* -- 

(We will most assuredly keep that in mind, sir. And Jason.) 

(Please. Do that very thing.) 

His sons dim their presences as one -- 

Jason makes a soft, *hungry* noise -- 

The shadow-wrapped package hanging above the bed starts to...

Well, Aramis is putting up a fight in there. 

"Lover. You're going to want to let him go." 

"I..." 

"Sooner rather than later." 

"I... am aware of this..." 

"Yes? Do tell," Treville says, kissing Jason's cheek and slipping out of bed to start getting ready for his day. 

Jason gurgles quietly. 

Treville considers -- "Those claws feel fantastic on your shadows, don't they." 

"Oh, yes." 

The struggling pauses. 

Pauses -- 

"So do the teeth, as an aside," Jason says, and stretches luxuriantly. 

Aramis's growl, while muffled, is heartfelt. 

"Lover." 

"Oh, all *right*," he says, gesturing -- 

Aramis *immediately* twists in mid-air and leaps for a neutral corner of the bed. 

"Excellent choice not to attack, mon grand --" 

Aramis hisses and -- fluffs, belatedly. 

Hm. He probably *couldn't*, before -- 

"Oh, yes, you're right that I do deserve it," Jason says, sitting up on his elbows with one knee up. "You did *nothing* wrong... other than trigger my defenses." And he raises the teaching eyebrow. 

Aramis's look is baleful -- though he stops hissing. "MROW." 

"I am going to teach you, mon grand. Teaching is *one* of my vocations -- and I do not put my vocations *aside* because they are, occasionally, *inconvenient*. *One* of the things I will teach you? Is how, when, where, and *why* you should be careful around mages you *know* are more powerful and experienced than you are." 

(I did not offer offense!) 

"Are you quite certain about that, mon grand...?" 

Aramis jerks back, lifting up off his front paws for a moment -- before he settles and glares again. (Am I not *your* pack? Mm? Are you so *easy* to offend?) 

Treville yips a laugh -- "You tell him, son." 

(I am not speaking to you at this time!) 

"Right you are," Treville says, and focuses on dressing himself like an adult -- 

While his beautiful, beautiful lover fills their bed with smoky, musky heat and laughs. "Touché, Aramis. The point is yours --" 

(Is it?) 

"Oh, yes. Up *to* a point." 

(What is this point! Tell --) 

Jason raises two fingers to silence Aramis -- 

Aramis growls a sharp little sound and settles again. 

"This, mon grand: I would be a poor teacher, indeed -- a *worthless* teacher -- if I had *allowed* you to spend even one more *hour* with only the natural caution of a cat to protect you --" 

(I have more than this! My good mother taught me *every* caution! I am my good mother's son and I have taken *all* of her lessons!) 

"Have you?" 

(You are insulting!) 

"This, mon grand: What, precisely, would your good mother have said about the proper ways to approach one such as *me*," Jason says, and raises the teaching eyebrow. 

Another growl -- 

Chuffing noises of frustration -- 

(I do not wish to speak of her!) 

"Mon grand --" 

(You -- you -- your point is *made*, M'sieu Blood. She would have -- I wish. I wish.) 

Treville looks up from lacing fresh breeches -- just in time to be hit with a jangled wash of *grief*-scents. It -- 

He's growling and *moving* -- 

(Do not! I do not want to -- to --) 

Treville pauses with one hand cupping that sleek head. "What do you want, son? Mm? What can we give you?" 

Aramis shudders once, all over -- 

Treville strokes him, pets and caresses and *warms* -- 

(I... my.) 

"Mm? Tell us." 

(My *Treville*,) Aramis says, and *looks* at him. 

Treville... is almost certainly grinning like an idiot. 

"Oh, you absolutely are, amant." 

"Thank you *very* much for that, lover, but what can I do for you, Aramis? *Son*." And Treville strokes the sensitive, lightly-furred patches just in front of Aramis's ears -- 

(I am your pack?) 

"Always --" 

(And I am your son?) 

"*Always* --" 

(And you will do all things to make me smile? Make me happy and -- and *comfortable*?) 

Treville rumbles -- no. "With joy in my heart, son." 

(And *this* means you will not expose your son to people who mean him *harm*.) 

"What? No, never --" 

(And that you *will* give your son time with people -- many people! -- who will teach and guide and *show* as *you* teach and guide and show.) 

"Of course --" 

(This is well,) Aramis says, scent-marking Treville's hand aggressively before standing up on his hind-paws to scent-mark Treville's cheeks and beard even *more* aggressively -- 

"*Mm* --" 

And then Aramis pads back over to Jason, making a point of stepping on his crotch none too gently on his way up his belly and chest. 

"Yes, mon grand?" 

(Today, I will *not* go with my Treville to the garrison. Instead, you will teach me!) 

Jason grins and inclines his head. "You have my gratitude for this, mon grand. But... we truly can get an *excellent* start on your studies if we *all* go in with Treville today." 

"Brrt?" (I -- I mean --) 

"You need not concern yourself overmuch with 'correcting' your speech just yet, Aramis. We *all* understand you perfectly well -- and these are not the lessons you are most prepared for," Jason says, and raises a *questioning* eyebrow. 

There's a lowering atmosphere of *brutality* around Aramis -- 

That winks out with Aramis's huff. (No, M'sieu Blood. They are not.) 

Jason inclines his head -- "Though... you truly should call me *Jason*." 

(When will we share blood!) 

Jason blinks -- quite stupidly, really. 

Treville pulls his dagger and moves round to grip Jason's arm. 

"Amant, what --" 

"Right now, son," Treville says, and slashes shallowly.

"Am I getting a *choice* about this...?" And there's that particular quality of *shocky* amusement in Jason's voice which always means exactly *one* thing: He'd long since decided to go along with whatever *Treville* and the rest of the family decided, even though he thinks they're mad for making the decision, even though he can't believe that anyone would ever *want* to make the decision, even though he'll never stop *seeking* for someone to *give* his heartfelt *gratitude* to -- 

For making a moment like this possible. 

Treville lifts the drooling slash to Aramis's mouth and hums. "No choices, at all, lover. You know that sort of thing just gets you in the bad sort of trouble." 

"Oh -- we wouldn't want to have -- that -- Aramis, this is going to be very unpleasant for you --" 

"He's cursed, son. This is going to be *terrible*. And then? It won't be." 

"Mrrt," Aramis says, leaning in and beginning to lap -- 

Fluffing like he'd been hit by *lightning* -- 

Whimpering and *mewing* -- 

"Fuck -- *amant* --" 

"He hasn't stopped *lapping*, lover -- and he *won't*." 

"I -- I never want --" 

And then -- 

And then Aramis lifts a shaking paw and *grips* Jason's arm, digging in with his claws and *yanking* it closer -- 

Holding it *tight* even as he shudders and shudders -- 

Jason *grunts* -- 

Treville rumbles. "There's my good boy. There's my *perfect* boy." 

After that, it doesn't take very long for the shuddering to stop and for Aramis's fur to *start* to settle -- 

But he keeps lapping the wound open with his barbed tongue just the same. He -- 

He holds Jason -- and doesn't let up with those claws until Jason picks up on the very loud clues and starts petting. 

Treville sighs. He has the best pack. 

_We were all reasonably certain that the tears wouldn't start until Blood actually *showed* you the presents. There were wagers,_ Etrigan says, musingly. 

"Oh, will you *shut* it?" 

Treville blinks. "I..." He licks his lips and looks to Jason. "About those presents?" 

"Some of them are for the *boys*," Jason says with no little asperity. 

"I assumed, yes, but -- Jason, did you *leave* me to go bloody *shopping*?" 

"Not *just* shopping --" 

"Lover." 

"*Look*." 

"*Jason*." 

"I..." Jason winces. And winces at Aramis, who is digging in with those claws again, though he's let the wound close. And then Jason smiles ruefully. "I... haven't." 

"You haven't *what*?" 

"I haven't had anyone to shop for. In... quite some time," Jason says, and smiles crookedly. 

Treville *stares* -- 

*Immediately* feels like his *hair* is about to catch *flame* -- 

It -- 

"Oh -- don't -- don't *pity* me, amant --" 

"I'm not bloody pitying you!" 

"You *are*!" 

"I'm *not*. I'm kicking myself in the *bollocks* for not *realizing* -- *fuck* -- shop! Shop all the bloody time! We'll shop together!" 

"I." 

"Let's go shopping right now --" 

"Amant --" 

"Where are the rest of my -- I can probably get some boutiques to open -- or. Hm. Should I have some jewelers or something out here? Or --" 

"*Amant*." 

"Jason --" 

"Ah... I've gotten it out of my system?" 

Treville narrows his eyes and lifts his *nose* -- 

Aramis digs his *claws* in -- 

Jason *hoots*. "All *right*, *both* of you! I've gotten it out of my system for *now*. I. I would truly like to give you both your presents now." 

"MOWR!" 

Jason laughs more. "But I *do* know you well enough for gifts, mon grand. I've been studying you through mon amant's senses -- *all* of his senses -- from the very beginning." 

(... I suppose I did know this.) 

"You truly did, son. Keep perforating my lover anyway; he's earned it. Which parcels are mine and Aramis's?" 

"The two parcels of books are Aramis's. The... ah." 

"Mm?" 

"The... art-case. Is yours." 

Treville blinks. "I... I'd truly assumed you'd gotten that -- whatever it is -- for Athos..." 

"Well... no..." 

Treville grins. "All *right*, then. Let's see, shall we?" 

"You don't -- that is... if you don't care for it --" 

"It's you, lover. You were thinking of this, and of me, and of me *having* this. You were thinking about it *so* much that you actually had to leave the bloody sphere for *days* so you could go *get* it. I already know I'm going to love it," Treville says, and retrieves the parcels, bringing them to the bed. 

"I..."

Aramis pads over to sniff at them -- and jumps back before he gets too close, looking to Jason. 

"*Good* instincts, mon grand. Absolutely all of these gifts are imbued with magical energy of various sorts, though only *one* of the books I'm giving you will actively try to do you harm." 

"MEE." 

"Only when you're unwary, mon grand. And you won't be, now will you?" 

Aramis gives Jason an *aggrieved* look for long moments -- but then flicks his tail and turns back to the parcels of books, flooding them with a strong, focused wash of his spirit-magery -- 

Then focusing on the *first* parcel of books -- 

Then tearing *open* the first parcel with a quick, near-surgical slash of his claws before jumping back and studying the three revealed books more -- 

More -- 

He makes frustrated noises and pours more raw power into his search -- 

"As an aside, mon grand...?" 

(Yes? Yes, what?) 

"There are any number of beings throughout the numberless spheres who are attracted to *nothing* more powerfully, more *passionately*, more *desirously*... than an impressive expenditure of power." 

(What? Why --) 

And that, of course, is when the *first* book in the pile whips out a clutch of pulsing, writhing, translucent purple tentacles and attempts to yank Aramis inside itself. 

The yowling is no more impressive than -- 

But then the dog within Treville *forces* the shift, uses his effortless connection with the All-Mother to call up *countless* thick, woody roots from the *floor* -- 

Which, in their turn, effortlessly free the Aramis-cat from the book and place him between the dog's paws. 

Where the dog can groom him and soft him properly. 

"Hm. Ah. Hound?" 

The dog is not talking to his Jason right now. 

(I am also not talking to him right now.) 

The dog rumbles at the Aramis-cat and grooms away the slime the bad book left behind. 

"I would like to know... where... it's only that that book is quite rare..." 

The dog checks -- 

MOTHER tells him that the book is even more rare now. 

The dog rumbles and keeps grooming. 

"Oh, dear. Well. I. I suppose I'll just have to take another shopping trip some other... time..." 

The dog glares at his Jason. 

The Aramis-cat also glares. 

His Jason smiles the good, crooked smile, but the dog is still angry. 

The dog snaps.

"You're -- both -- heard. I will do *better* about teaching our Aramis --" 

"Mowr!" 

"-- who is *definitely* not a fool who needs to have his knuckles rapped or his muzzle smacked with every lesson --" 

The dog growls -- 

"-- and so I will not *act* that way. I promise," his Jason says, covering his heart with one hand and bowing over it. 

The dog checks on Aramis-cat -- 

Grooms away more slime -- 

(You... are a very good dog.) 

This is true. The dog whuffs. 

(You are my pack?) 

Always always. 

(I am *your* pack?) 

You have to pick that. 

(This is so?) 

I asked MOTHER. SHE says it's different with spirit-shifters than it is with earth-shifters like me. 

The Aramis-cat shares his thoughtful scents. 

The dog rumbles and grooms and rumbles and grooms -- 

Nuzzles the fluff down -- 

Grooms -- 

(MOTHER is... good?) 

MOTHER is MOTHER. MOTHER...

(Yes? Yes?) 

The dog considers, because he can tell the Aramis-cat needs a good answer for this. He is a good dog, and good dogs give good answers.

(This is so.) 

The dog whuffs agreement. MOTHER is MOTHER. MOTHER is life. MOTHER is knowledge. MOTHER is warm dens, and rich meat, and squishy mud under your paws always. MOTHER is the dead things that stink, and the green things that stink better. MOTHER is all the people who make sense, and most of the people who don't. MOTHER is... MOTHER. 

The Aramis-cat shares more thoughtful scents. 

The dog goes back to grooming. 

(This was a very good answer.) 

The dog rumbles. 

(I have decided that I am your pack.) 

You are my Aramis-cat! The dog grooms and grooms and licks to say hello, and welcome, and that he loves, and that he will always cuddle and take care, and that he loves -- 

(THERE IS NO MORE SLIME!) 

The dog is aware of this...

(I. Do not wish more licking. At this time.) 

The dog croons a question. 

For some reason, his Jason is wheezing his human-like laughter. 

His Aramis-cat is growling -- 

The dog croons more -- 

His Aramis-cat huffs. (I believe we must teach this pack how to treat us properly, Dog.) 

They definitely don't wrestle and cuddle and pet you enough -- and no one at all has made you spend -- 

(I!) 

Your fur is sticking up. I should groom you more -- 

(I would like to speak with Treville! Again! For now!)   
'  
He really isn't as good at grooming, Aramis-cat. You've seen what a filthy dog he is. 

His Jason laughs big! And topples off the bed. 

They pad over to check -- 

Aramis-cat does his best to knock the stew-pot over on top of him, which seems like a waste of very good meat, but also seems like a good game. 

The dog helps. 

"Oh *fuck* --" 

The dog will always help!


	12. This is the stuff Etrigan lives for, really.

Treville comes back to his own body and mind with a face full of gravy and a creeping terror that he's begun living portions of his life repeatedly -- 

But then Aramis smacks him, and he realizes the following things: 

1) That wasn't the first smack. 

2) He -- and the dog -- have been licking gravy *from Aramis's body*. 

3) At some point, his staff is going to murder all of them extremely messily for all the cleaning they've been making them do. 

Treville rolls off Aramis and surveys the damage. 

The blast-range for the stew is approximately six feet in diameter, which, really, could be a *lot* worse -- 

Even *with* the far-too-recognizable rodent carcasses dotting the landscape -- 

And the gravy, eldritch slime, and canine saliva that Aramis is currently shaking *all over the bed* -- 

Jason, that *arsehole*, is clean from his head to his *heels*. And making a bloody show of studying his *nails*. Though -- 

"Lover." 

"Hmm...?" 

Treville *looks* at him.

"I suppose you'd like me to *do* something about this mess." 

Treville looks *harder*. 

"I would like to point out that it was *your* --" 

"Our." 

"-- son and *your* --" 

"Our." 

"-- dog who did their best to *baste* me in all this gravy and rodentia." 

"You earned it, lover. And? I still haven't seen my *present*." 

Jason grunts, eyes wide just that quickly -- 

The shadows *rush* in from all directions -- 

Treville is, for long moments, unsure whether he's being *encased* or *abraded* -- 

"MROWR!" 

\-- and then Treville, and the room, and Aramis, and the bed -- are clean. 

And Jason is licking his chops. "Mm. That was *exceedingly* good stew, Aramis." 

Aramis -- whose fur is now sticking out in *every* direction -- is *glowing* at Jason. 

Jason coughs into his fist. "Yes, well," he says, and -- hands Treville the art case. 

Treville strokes Aramis's back with his free hand and rumbles -- 

Cuts the twine with a claw -- 

Pulls out a *thick* canvas that is positively *thrumming* with spirit-magery *and* blood-magery. 

Treville raises an eyebrow at Jason. 

"I -- it's -- I just wanted --" 

Treville nods. He's making it worse by drawing things out. 

He rolls out the -- broad -- canvas on the bed, not at all surprised when it just *stays* flat -- 

When. 

"Oh." And Treville is -- staring. And -- 

"It. You've been... so generous with your memories, amant. With your *heart*. And I..." And Jason trails off, or -- 

Maybe he doesn't. 

Maybe he's still talking and Treville just can't hear him, can't hear *anything* around the pound of his *heart*, because -- 

His pack is here. 

Right here. 

His *pack* -- *both* of his packs, past and present, in a portrait which could never exist, in a portrait -- 

Treville shudders and stares, just -- 

His Amina-love, head thrown back as she cackles and grips her belly with one hand and *points* with the other -- at Reynard, who is looking sheepish and *pained* and *panicked* as a Thomas more adult than he ever had the chance to *be* *obviously* interrogates him about some obscure point. 

And Kitos -- 

Kitos is holding Aramis in the air, laughing so -- 

And Aramis is reaching for Kitos's beard with one soft, round, outstretched paw, and Treville is offering some of Kitos's *head*-hair, too --

Oh, but Porthos is leading Marie-Angelique in a dance around everyone else, grinning into her eyes -- 

He -- but -- 

He would've -- 

And they would've -- 

And Laurent is *fencing* with *Jason* as Etrigan places *bets*.

And Porthos's and Treville's *dogs* are there, somehow also *there*, romping and wrestling, barking joyously and knocking over the *tables* -- but.

But there's something strange? Athos is talking to... a shadow?

The shadow shifts and moves, dragging the attention of the painted Athos *sluggishly*; it's not quite natural, and -- 

And Treville realizes. "The shadow." His voice is thick, hoarse, *pained* -- 

He's weeping -- 

He's weeping, and -- he grins helplessly at Jason. "Oh, Jason, the shadow is *Aramis*, isn't it? The *boy* in him!" 

Jason smiles shakily at him. There are tears rolling down his own cheeks. "It... I. He's already in your heart, amant. This..." He gestures to the canvas. "It's keyed to *you*. Whoever you love, as the years pass, will enter that canvas. And stay there." 

Treville shudders and *coughs* out a sob -- and yanks Jason close, holds him, *holds* him -- 

"So... I *am* allowed to go gift-shopping again?" 

"*Fuck* --" And Treville laughs hard and painfully -- 

Shudders and laughs and *weeps* -- 

And Jason holds him tight and close and safe -- 

And Aramis jumps up on his shoulder and nips his ear. (I have not decided if you are allowed to love the boy in me this much... but it is known that dogs are very free with their emotions.) 

Treville snickers *wetly* -- "Thank you very much for that, son."


	13. Even the most serious-minded working hound will appreciate companionship during his day-to-day tasks.

They are, of course, late when they arrive at the garrison, but there's nothing quite like showing up with Jason Blood beside one to set a tone. 

Even when he's glamouring himself like a wealthy merchant with *showy* weapons, his overall atmosphere of creeping eldritch menace is nothing but itself. 

People -- even people who've had the better part of a *generation* to get used to *Treville's* brand of magery, however unspoken -- tend to find his lover... worrying. 

Which makes the fact that he's here *today* -- 

When Treville has to apply pressure to any number of people sweating and fuming and *fretting* in the Musketeer dungeons -- 

That much better. 

Treville shows his teeth. 

(I do love it when you think about using me as your *weapon*, amant.) 

Treville blinks -- 

Jason laughs *richly*, but -- 

Lover -- 

(Mon grand, the *reason* why mon amant is fretting in *this* instant?) 

"Brrt?" 

(He's remembering his brother Reynard -- that would be the *other* red-haired gentleman in the painting -- and his particularly *violent* brand of madness, and his tendency to *declare* himself to be mon amant's weapon -- and *no* one else's.) 

"Mee?" 

(Oh, *especially* not the King's. Or the Queen-Regent's, when it was her turn.) 

Treville blushes -- 

Tries to make it *look* like an angry flush for everyone *watching* them ride in -- but Aramis is batting at his back through the leathers. 

He has questions, and Treville -- 

Treville will never, ever make him wait for answers. 

Son, I... I never want to make Jason feel like he's a *replacement* -- 

(Would he do the same *things* for you as your Reynard would do?) 

They're completely *different*. I -- they would never -- 

(You would never *mistake* one for the other, yes?) 

Of *course* not -- 

(You would never *reach* for Jason when you were *dreaming* of your Reynard.) 

Only -- only for his *comfort*, to share memories, to hear him tell me of *his* lost loves -- 

(This is *well*.) 

I -- 

(This is well!) 

Jason is snickering like a boy -- 

Treville licks his lips -- 

Aramis digs in with his *claws* -- 

Right you are, son. I'll just... ah... 

(A man may have *many* good, strong, *dangerous* weapons. This is known.) 

Well, Treville is *hard* now, but -- 

Jason chokes on a laugh as they dismount -- 

Aramis leaps onto Treville's shoulder and settles -- 

Treville *focuses* on giving Lisle some soothing pats and a bit of dried apple. 

(Good horse. Good horse.) 

Agreed, son. She's -- 

(Mon grand...) 

(Yes? What is it, my Teacher?) 

(Oh... do call me that *whenever* you'd like,) Jason says, and turns to greet the moderately intimidated stableboys, who are always far less *saucy* when Jason's about -- 

More's the pity -- 

Aramis *smacks* him -- 

Treville hums and *behaves* --

(You do that, amant,) Jason says, and they walk out into the day together. (As I was saying, mon grand... would you like to be one of mon amant's weapons?) 

(No. I *am* one of my Treville's weapons, and you will make me a *better* one.) 

Well, now he's hard *and* blushing -- 

And Jason is grinning *rapaciously* -- 

And Aramis is riding Treville's shoulder proud and tall and so -- 

Perfect. 

*Perfect*. 

Treville reaches up and gives that chest a scritch. "I promise you, son -- I'm a man who knows *exactly* how to care for a weapon, when all's said and done." 

(When you fail, I will teach you better,) Aramis says, serene and assured. 

And with all that, it's *extremely* difficult to look grim and evil-tempered once he gets to the foot of the stairs where the quartermasters are waiting for him, along with two of the lieutenants. 

Despite the *presence* of the lieutenants, Frederic has once again been chosen to take the lead -- at least in terms of speaking to *him*. Hm. 

He'll have to do something about injecting some steel into the officers' backbones at some point -- but there isn't time for that today, because Frederic looks *hopeful*, but not *happy*. 

Treville nods to acknowledge the other men while Jason does just a little bit of shadow-work to fade out of their perceptions, and then Treville focuses on Frederic. "Who *didn't* you get." 

"de Taupe and his family scarpered when the word reached them -- before it reached *us* -- about the gauntlets, sir. They knew you'd be coming down hard on the whole firm." 

Treville narrows his eyes. "Where." 

"We found one of the maids who was suddenly fired -- she hadn't picked up another job, yet, and she and her little ones were hungry, sir -- and she said the wife had family in Tours --" 

"Hermine's our fastest rider. Ursos is our most terrifying sonofabitch in the absence of my mentally-unbalanced children --" 

"You raise them *right*, sir!" That from Phalène. Well... well. 

"Be that as it may. Hirondelle's the recruit I want trained in *this* the fastest. Get those three on the road to Tours *now*," he says, and *looks* at Phalène.

"*Yes*, sir!" And he's off. 

Treville turns back to Frederic. "The others...?" 

"The cells are packed, sir!" 

"Who did you *have* to rough up a little." 

Blushes all round. Well, this should at least be *entertaining*. 

(How I adore you, amant...) 

The feeling is *entirely* mutual, lover, Treville says, and crosses his arms over his chest, letting his carefully-foul expression do the talking for him. 

"Sir!" 

He turns his expression fouler -- 

"No -- no *actual* nobles, sir!" And Frederic is smiling at him, which -- all right -- 

"Well..." But that would be Carcajou -- 

And Frederic's smile looks as weak and sickly as Richelieu after that picnic, all of a sudden. 

Treville sighs. "*Which* nobles did you batter?" 

Frederic -- and the others -- sweat at him. 

"Do they *outrank* me." 

Frederic and the others share a speaking look. 

A *long* speaking look. 

A long, thoughtful -- 

Treville sighs. "All right, fine, it's up in the air thanks to Louis's little whims. Yes?" 

His men smile and nod with relief for their Captain having solved the thorny dilemma, and there are times -- 

Many, many, *many* times -- 

When Treville wants to travel back in time *solely* to find some way to *apologize* to Laurent for every moment like this *he* had personally caused for the man, both as a Musketeer and in the French regular Army. 

While the number of recreational floggings between them had been entirely respectable, there absolutely could've been far, far more *disciplinary* floggings, and -- 

And Frederic was just saying something. 

What the bloody hell could it have *been*?

(You are a deviant, my Treville, and Frederic has said that it is only the *one* noble -- Lombric -- who has been beaten.) 

One, you're a wonderful son -- 

(I know this thing!) 

Two, I've been a deviant from the time I *began* to mature sexually -- 

(I have seen your memories of this!) 

And three, I love you.

"MEHR!" 

Treville focuses on Frederic again -- 

Frederic is, at the moment, *fascinated* by the sight of Aramis smacking Treville viciously and repeatedly -- 

The other men are standing to attention in that *particular* way which always suggests that the soldiers in question will stay right there, in that position, with *that* expression on their faces, right up until the artillery lands *on* them. 

Such good boys.

Treville lets Aramis have his head and reaches up with his unencumbered arm -- 

Claps Frederic on the shoulder -- 

And gives him a squeeze. "Which of you beat the hell out of Lombric?" 

"Sir! Me and Carcajou, sir!" 

"Good. Both of you will be leading the way into the dungeons, telling *extravagant* tales about all the deviants, whores, heretics, witches, Spaniards, Moors, demons, and everything-bloody-else you found in the home of Lombric, who absolutely tried to protect all of them with his own weapons -- what was he trying to protect, by the by?" 

"Frederic knocked the wine out of his hand, sir," Carcajou says. And. 

Doesn't say anything else.

At all. 

Treville blinks. "He was just a belligerent *drunk*?" 

Frederic's expression is sour. "Not much of that, sir. Turns out that wine was that fancy new bubbly Carcasonne shite. He kicked up a fuss when I spilled it, tried to brain Carcajou with an *empty* bottle --" 

"But he still wasn't drunk." 

"Didn't seem that way, sir. He was speaking clearly, enunciating nice and posh. He was just an arsehole." 

(I see a clear path ahead of us, amant...) 

Treville grunts. As do I. 

Aramis stops smacking him. (What is this path!) 

Treville reaches up and gives Aramis's chest a stroke. You'll see, little one. You'll be helping us *clear* that path, after all.

(*Oh* --) 

"Right," Treville says, letting his eyes flash for just a *moment* -- 

His quartermasters don't even blink. The lieutenants are still at attention -- 

Treville dismisses the lieutenants with a pointed look and a growl -- 

"Sir! We!" 

"Have recruits to train, sir!

"Yes, sir!

"And we're -- right now. Sir." 

And they're off. Mm. Definitely more steel needed. He turns to Frederic and Carcajou -- "We're heading down now, boys. Look sharp," Treville says, and gestures for them to take point.

They move into formation immediately, and start striking up a conversation among themselves about the truly impressive number of laws of King, country, and nature that were being broken in Lombric's home. 

Once they hit their stride, and have a natural rhythm worked up, they begin including Treville in the conversation, embellishing on the original ideas with creativity and verve -- 

(And deviance, amant...) 

(And -- and -- my Treville, is this the sort of sex act you *like*?) 

Treville blinks and *focuses* again -- ah. 

Frederic has begun discussing with Carcajou the myriad benefits and difficulties inherent to making love with an underage incubus. 

That... 

(I *promise* that I have not been adding to the garrison library, mon amant.) 

But.

(I have, however, been adding to *your* library wantonly and indiscriminately --) 

And my sons have been educating the masses, yes, I see. I...

(I, for one, find it quite warming that Athos has begun socializing with his other brothers.) 

Jason. 

(I *daresay* Laurent and Marie-Angelique would be *equally* pleased by this...) 

*Fuck* --

Aramis purrs and tickles Treville's nape with his tail. (This was very cruel, my Teacher.) 

(I should be horse-whipped at *least* as often as your father, mon grand -- though it's true that I don't enjoy it nearly as much as he does.) 

(Then you should not do it!) 

(Mon grand. There are *remarkably* few beings who enjoy being whipped as much as mon amant does,) Jason says, and then they're in the cellars, and it's dark enough that he can send out a shadow to tease Aramis -- 

"Mee!" Aramis catches it nearly immediately and bites *hard*, shaking it in an instinctive attempt to break a spine -- 

And Jason sighs. (Such an excellent little cat.) 

(Yes! I am!) 

Treville reaches up past the freshly-'killed' shadow to scritch -- 

Listens to his quartermasters discuss the *salon* the naked, underage incubi were having with the German heretics and assorted Mohammedans in Lombric's sitting room -- 

Wonders, idly, just what his men think *he* gets up to whenever he leaves here -- or takes time off for brief holidays -- 

(It's almost certainly the better part of valour not to ask, amant, considering the fact that you spend the vast majority of your holidays violently dispatching the undead and various other magically-inclined pillocks, and thus *covering* yourself with the brackishly eldritch effluvia of the *damned*.) 

Hm. Right you are, Treville says, and then they array themselves in front of Lombric's cell. 

His quartermasters take the east and west -- and fondle their rapiers and pistols. 

Jason pushes out of his shroud of shadow to *materialize* just behind and to the left of Treville. 

Aramis -- 

Aramis is sniffing his hair -- 

(I am looking for the eldritch effluence!) 

I do wash, son. 

(Even had I not seen this for myself? Your *dog* thinks you do this very poorly, indeed, my Treville.) 

I -- no, wait, let me be menacing for a moment. 

(Yes, do this.) 

Treville steps forward and -- no, he's not going to cross his hands over his chest for this one.

He rests one hand on his sword-belt and lets the other one hang in an impression of calm and casualness that, if Lombric has a brain in his head, will tell the man even more about how much danger he's in. 

And... Lombric. 

Mid-forties. 

Balding somewhat more than Treville was before Jason's gift of immortality halted that process -- quite the dramatic widow's peak. 

Healthy enough, judging by his scents -- and his men are, as ever, excellent judges of sobriety: He hadn't had very much liquor last night, at all. Or in the past few days. 

His -- expensive and fashionable to the point of *pain* -- clothes are scuffed, stained, and torn. 

The torn places show scrapes and bruises -- nothing too serious. He already knew that, though, because Lombric is lounging on his pallet like it's a couch in a well-lit, well-appointed sitting room somewhere much, much spiritually brighter than this. 

He's letting the light from his little knothole of a window gild his trim little salt-and-pepper beard, and he looks like he's waiting for an artist to paint him for some gloriously overblown representation of Nobility In The Face Of Barbarism. 

(I believe, my Treville, that such things require religious themes.) 

(You don't think there's a place for such things in the art of, shall we say, *regime* changes, mon grand?) 

(Oh, *yes*, my Teacher! This is so! But... this one wishes to be worshiped by someone. I can *feel* it.) 

Mm. What else do you feel, son... 

(I --) 

(Do you feel, perhaps, that which would give us... a certain portion of what we need from this man...?) 

Aramis makes a *small* sound -- 

Digs his *claws* into Treville's shoulder in *palpable* excitement -- 

(Give me -- only give me --) 

Take your time, little one, Treville says, and hums. "Monsieur Lombric. You may be wondering why I asked you to share in the hospitality of the King's Musketeers today." 

"I have no interest whatsoever in you, your desires, or your *whims*, Treville." 

Treville lets his laugh be as blatant a bark as it wants to be. "Clear, concise, to the point... I like it," he says, and steps closer. "I'll return the favour: Your businesses -- your *interests* -- are corrupt. This normally wouldn't be *much* of a problem -- we are all, after all, men of the world.

"However, your particular corruption has reached a point where it is having a *distinctly* deleterious effect on the military." Treville pauses and cocks his head to the side, doggishly. 

Lombric says nothing, and changes his expression not at all. 

Treville flashes his teeth -- 

His men growl *for* him -- 

"Monsieur Lombric... let me put it another way. Your businesses are endangering King, country, and the strong right arm of both. Your businesses -- and the way you run them -- are doing their level best to uplift our *enemies*... and I will not have that." 

Lombric takes a quiet breath -- and *then* turns to look at him with one eyebrow up. "And who are you to say this to me? Precisely." 

Treville grins. Doggishly. "I'm a fourth-rate second-generation noble with a name which counts for *nothing* in this country --" 

"Good that you *know* it --" 

Treville gestures -- 

And Jason strangles Lombric with a shadow that can't be seen by anyone, at all -- not even Treville, really. 

The shadow fixes Lombric's overly-languid posture into something much more *martial* about things -- 

Forces him to face *front* -- 

Makes him gurgle and *choke* -- 

Mm. "Monsieur Lombric... I am also just a *few* other things that you should *truly* pay attention to in this moment." 

His men -- bless them -- are grinning from ear to ear and *molesting* their weapons -- 

Lombric is *scrabbling* at the floor of the cell with his feet -- 

At his pallet with panicked fingers -- 

His eyes are starting to roll like a *horse's* -- 

(My Treville! My Teacher! I have his spirit in hand! Should I --) 

(Frighten him a *trifle* more, mon grand. He has lessons to learn.) 

For good and all, yes. 

(Yes!) 

Lombric stiffens like a *plank* -- 

His mouth opens in a silent *shriek* -- 

And he pisses himself. Well, then. 

(More?) 

More, little one. Just don't kill him or drive him out of his mind -- 

(I am better than this!) 

Lombric starts to *thrash* -- 

To *weep* silently -- 

To *throw* himself back into the corner of the *cell* -- 

And the men are starting to smell a trifle worried. 

(That's enough, mon grand. Now...?) 

(I have already fixed him! You will finish.) 

And Lombric *stops* throwing himself about -- 

Cowers in the corner -- 

Stares wildly as he *gasps* -- and then obviously *realizes* that he's gasping, because he reaches for his throat, strokes it all over as he seeks for the cruel collar that just isn't there anymore. 

Almost there. 

After another few moments, he whimpers piteously and pats at his wet trousers -- 

Looks around fruitlessly for *something* to dry himself with -- 

And then and *only* then remembers that he has an audience. He jerks back against the wall and puts up his hands as if to keep them away from him. 

Treville cocks his head to the other side and smiles a little wider. "Monsieur Lombric. Have we come to an understanding?"

"I -- I -- I don't -- I wasn't -- I didn't --" 

"You're a man of business, Monsieur Lombric. Aren't you?" 

"Yes! I! I have -- but I'm a gentleman -- a --" 

"Shh. Of course you are. And gentlemen... they hold to their honour. They keep themselves... upright. Respectable. Don't they." 

"Y-y-yes! And I! I have to do that! I can't -- I have to do that or -- or something will --" Lombric's expression crumples like a *child's* -- 

He covers his *face* -- 

He *sobs* -- 

(A little *less* pressure, mon grand...) 

Or -- possibly *altered* pressure, lover? 

(Hmm. Yes, let's give it a try. Mon grand?) 

(I will do this!) 

There's a *slamming* wave of spirit-magery -- 

Lombric falls off the *pallet* -- and nearly immediately stands, dusts himself off as best as he can, straightens his clothes, smiles *wryly* -- "I truly have made a *spectacle* of myself today, haven't I." He shakes his head and frowns. "I've only myself to blame." 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Is that so." 

Lombric winces. "I... listen, I -- Treville." 

"You have my utmost attention, Monsieur Lombric." 

"And an invitation to jump *right* off something tall and *into* something full of sharp *spikes* if I don't say the right thing in the next several minutes...? No, don't answer -- you *don't* have to," Lombric says, staring at his filthy hands and wincing again before meeting Treville's eyes. "We both know I made the choices I did because I wanted more money *faster*. We both know I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences. I -- I am *now*. I can't *not* think about --" 

Lombric turns away with a distinctly queasy expression on his face. "I have family in Savoy, Treville. Family... the treaties are... I grew up believing that the treaties which *weren't* set in stone had nothing to do with *me*, and that the Musketeers didn't truly *need* anything the French Crown wouldn't give. That... I was protected. That we all were." 

Treville *blinks* -- 

Does *not* look at his industrious little cat -- 

No, he focuses -- "You know better than that, now." 

"I do, Treville. And I'll make certain -- as best I *can* -- that the rest of us do, too. I -- don't suppose you have a spare pair of trousers?" 

Well. 

Well... 

No, he is the *Captain*. He inclines his head. "Give us just a bit of time, Monsieur," he says, and turns to his men -- 

Who are looking a *bit* stunned, but, truly, none the worse for wear -- 

Carcajou only jumps a *little* when Treville claps him on the shoulder -- "Sir! I! Yes, sir!" 

And Frederic coughs out an acknowledgment -- 

"There you are, men. Take care of Monsieur Lombric. Get him new clothes, a nice meal, a surgeon to look him over -- some *hospitality*." 

"Yessir!" 

"And then?" 

"Um. Um. Sir?" Frederic's eyes may be rolling slightly. 

Treville claps him on the shoulder, too. 

"Ee -- yes, sir!" 

"Let *him* have the preliminary discussions with our other guests before giving him an honour guard escort home." 

"Sir!" 

"Yes, Carcajou?" 

"I." Carcajou stares at him -- 

Looks to the clutch of shadows Jason is fading into -- 

And then, very intelligently, looks to the very self-satisfied cat grooming his paw on Treville's shoulder. "Is that. Is he. Is. Um." 

Treville pulls on a benign smile. "His name is Armand, son. He's a very, very good kitty." 

Carcajou gives him a wounded look -- 

A *desperate* look -- 

And then, after a moment, *very* obviously decides to stop thinking about absolutely everything currently hurting his mind, and offers his hand for Aramis to sniff. 

Aramis does so, then scent-marks it very sweetly and affectionately, indeed. 

"Aw, that's -- that's um -- but I have duties to perform! And that's what I'm! Doing! Right, Frederic?" 

"Yes!" And Frederic gives the half-bow -- "Sir." 

Treville glints at them both, as he's a *bastard*. "Dismissed, boys." 

When they're out of earshot for a *human*, he can hear Frederic's low, desperate '*fuck*', but that's all there is to it. 

They'll be fine. He turns back to Lombric. "My men will be back in just a little while, and then you'll have the run of the garrison, Monsieur Lombric --" 

"Oh -- please, if I could trouble you to do so, I would appreciate it if you would call me Michel," he says, and offers his hand through the bars. 

Treville hums and takes it -- and shakes, not clasps. "I much prefer Treville to my first name, and I *always* have, Michel. You are welcome to continue using it." 

Michel inclines his head. "Merci. And... I heard you correctly? You wish for me to converse with your other prisoners?" 

"You know them well -- at least some of them," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Michel blinks -- and winces. "Yes, I see. The work *must* begin to change the profile of my businesses. I appreciate the opportunity to do so *efficiently*, Treville." 

Treville grins and tips his hat. "I will *always* be a soldier, Michel." 

"I'll remember that. And I'll let you get on with the *business* of it now -- as I imagine you have even more than usual to do these days," he says, and smiles wryly. 

Treville hums again. "You have, indeed, kept me from being bored, Michel. Until later," Treville says, and takes his leave. 

And, as they step out into the day -- 

(I will tear out his lungs and feed them to you if you make love with him, my Treville.) 

Treville does not trip and fall on his *face* -- 

Aramis digs in with his *claws* -- 

(In truth, mon grand, mon amant will always *vastly* prefer the brain and pancreas over other sorts of organ meat,) Jason says -- 

(I would not be feeding my Treville for *his* pleasure, my Teacher.) 

(Oh, well, then. *Definitely* feed him the lungs --) 

Hey -- you -- could we -- 

(Yes, amant...?) 

I. Have no intention of having sex *or* making love with someone you *enchanted* into being a reasonably tolerable human being, Aramis. 

(I enchanted him into an *excellent* human!) 

I. 

(He truly did, amant.) 

Why are you helping? Stop helping. Also -- 

Aramis huffs -- 

*Also*, Aramis, that was ridiculously incredible work -- 

(I know this thing!) 

It was *frighteningly* incredible work -- 

(I am not a monster!) 

(No, you are *not*, mon grand. You are a *virtuoso*... and we are humbled by the beauty you have created.) 

*Yes*. *That*, Treville says as he jogs up the stairs to his office. Which, well. I will admit to finding the beauty you created... beautiful -- 

(You were flirting, amant.) 

I...

Aramis digs claws into his ear. 

I was flirting, Treville says, and opens the door, and steps inside, and waits for Jason to step inside, and *closes* the door, "And I'm *very* sorry, but you really did make an excellent human, son." 

Aramis growls. 

"He is a *dog*, mon grand, but he is a loyal one," Jason says, moving close and tapping Aramis's leathery little nose. "Should you ever wish him to *not* make love with someone in particular? Merely tell him, and he will not." 

Aramis shares thoughtful scents -- but only for a moment. (I -- have not agreed to make love with *any* of you,) he says, and shares *challenging* scents. 

"Yes...?" And Jason raises an eyebrow. 

Treville reaches up to scritch that chest-fur. "You're our son, Aramis. You're our *pack*. We can't just roll around in scents that put your hackles up." 

Aramis blinks -- 

"Mm?" 

Aramis leaps down to the desk and *starts* to groom his shoulder -- 

Stops that and pads around for a few moments -- 

Stops that and makes a *soft* sound -- 

"Son?" 

And then he chuffs, stands straight and tall, and looks to both of them. (What. Would you have me *call* you.) 

Treville blinks -- 

(You must answer!) 

Jason reaches out and caresses Aramis's plush cheek-fur. "I truly do *adore* it when you call me your Teacher, mon grand --" 

(But --) 

"Shh. One moment?" 

(I will listen.) 

Jason grins and tickles under Aramis's chin -- 

Aramis scent-marks him *impatiently* -- 

And Jason laughs delightedly. "Oh, mon grand, you *must* understand that, due to the *numerous* curses on me -- including the ones *you* have felt most viscerally -- I am a *deeply* disturbing man to share space with. To that end, you, Treville, and Porthos are the *only* people I haven't had to work to *seduce* into becoming my students with rich gifts, endless promises... well. 

"I always keep my promises, and my students don't tend to *regret* my teaching, but... all of those rejections rather set a tone. I am *grateful* to be *claimed* -- and to be claimed for *this*, mon grand. 

"Please, *let* me be your Teacher." 

Aramis shivers. "Mah..." 

"I know. You didn't think you were giving quite so large a gift when you began calling me that," Jason says, and smiles gently. 

(I -- I -- yes! And --) 

Jason holds up two fingers. "Understand, mon grand: The fact that you already understood that you were giving me a gift, at all, is worth very, very much, indeed," he says and raises the teaching eyebrow. 

Aramis shares thoughtful scents -- 

*Hungry* scents -- 

And -- grief scents. 

Treville growls and moves close --

*Both* he and Jason stroke and pet Aramis -- 

"Son..." 

(I... my good mother would know this lesson. Would -- she would have taught me this lesson, I think. And then I would have known it for my Teacher.)

Jason shivers. "Aramis... there is no failing in you." 

"There is no *lack* in you --" 

(I. I miss my good mother.) 

Treville's heart hurts. "Would you tell us about her?" 

Aramis bats desultorily at the ink pot, moving it not at all. (I want my Treville to -- to tell me.) 

"Mm?" Treville brushes a thumb behind Aramis's velvety ear. "What am I telling you, son?" 

(I am your son. So -- so. Are you my Sir? My Daddy? Something -- something else?) 

And Treville would be a *fool* if he missed the fact that Aramis had left out some very particular words, there -- 

(I -- I do not have to leave them --) 

"Shh, son. You said it yourself, mm? I have *always* loved being a Daddy," Treville says, tilting Aramis's lovely little face up so he can give his boy his eyes. 

Aramis searches him with his *power* -- 

Searches him *warmly* and *thoroughly* -- 

Treville rumbles. "Always look. Always *study*." 

(Yes! I...) 

"Mm?" 

(You think I'm beautiful like *this*.) 

Jason coughs -- 

Treville smiles ruefully. "My... ah... aesthetic changed rather a lot when my spirit was bound to the dog's." 

(Did *his*?) 

"Absolutely*. He's a lot more interested in having conversations with the people he makes love with than he used to be, as an example. It's one of the reasons he likes *you* so much, little one." 

(I! But. He did mention...) 

"Mm?" 

Jason laughs softly. "The dog is of the opinion that we're failing Aramis miserably --" 

"He'd mentioned, yes --" 

"Did he mention that we're meant to be shagging him breathless?" 

Treville suspects that he looks pained. It. 

(My *Daddy*!) 

"Oh fuck --" 

(Why does this upset you! You find me *beautiful*. You think my face is *lovely*. You enjoy my sleek *fur*. You want to feel my rough paw-pads on your --) 

"*Shit* --" 

Jason *guffaws* -- 

"You *shut* it --" 

"*No*," Jason says, and laughs *harder* --

(My *Daddy*! You will answer my questions right now!) 

"I -- fuck -- you -- no. No. I'm all right. I'm an adult, and I'm --" Treville takes a breath, *finally* tosses his hat onto the well-clawed rack, throws himself into his chair, and smiles ruefully at his -- beautiful -- son. "Aramis." 

Aramis glares at him, paw hovering over the ink pot. 

"You're heard, son, but -- ah. The dog was being delicate with me. That's why he didn't insist, to me, that we immediately do our best to seduce you." 

(But. But why!) 

"Because, little one, he knew that I still have two very important little stutters in my mind when it comes to the prospect of making love with *you*, specifically." 

(What are these stutters!) 

Treville smiles wryly. "One, you're in *cat*-form --" 

Aramis growls *low* -- 

"-- which means that you're not even one *stone*. My dog? Is over *ten* stone. *I* am over *eleven* stone. Not to even mention certain rather pertinent differences of *scale* in terms of our respective anatomies." 

(You are unimaginative!) 

"I'll give you that one, because *many* parts of me have *absolutely* begun shoving that particular stutter out the window in favour of thinking of various ways we both might be getting more out of me *petting* you... or out of *you* *grooming* me," Treville says, and raises *both* eyebrows. 

(Oh.) 

"Mm?" 

(Tell me the other stutter!) 

Treville inclines his head --

Checks -- 

Yes, Jason is *absolutely* doing terrible things to his cock with at least two, but possibly three shadows. 

"Mee!" Aramis whirls around to do his *own* checking -- 

Bats at the few shadows roaming around the *room* -- 

(My Teacher! This conversation arouses you?) 

Jason hums and leans back against the shelving. "Mon grand, you are yourself and mon amant is *himself*. And I? Have no *stutters* in this respect whatsoever." 

The air fills with more thoughtful scents -- 

Aramis tugs a shadow closer and curls round it on the desk -- 

Jason shivers -- 

Aramis purrs and turns back to Treville. (My Daddy, tell me!) 

Treville -- surrenders a little, and adjusts himself in his trousers. "You're my son, Aramis. *That* is the stutter." 

(But...) 

"The fact that it is *also* one of the things making you arousing beyond all *reason* to me... does not stop it from being a stutter. I can't hurt you. I can't make you *uncomfortable*. I can't drive you *away* from me. I need you right here, by my side, until we are *dust*." 

And this -- 

This growl is hungry. 

"Son..." 

Aramis digs his claws into the shadow he's holding -- 

Jason takes a quick and *sharp* breath -- "Mon grand... what would you like?"

And the silence... lasts. 

Until Aramis begins to pant the way cats never, ever should. 

"Shh, shh, son, it's all right," Treville says, moving his hand *away* from his groin and reaching for his perfect son.

(It is *not* all right!) 

"Son --" 

(Nothing -- nothing is -- you give too much! You both give too *much*!) And Aramis is glaring at both of them. 

"Mon grand," Jason says, and strokes down over the crotch of his -- glamoured -- trousers with his thumb. "I believe you will find that we wish to *take* as *well* as give." 

And that -- makes Aramis stop panting. 

Turns his scents thoughtful again -- but not hungry. 

Treville *looks* at Jason. 

Jason inclines his head, and smiles ruefully. 

After long moments, Aramis picks the shadow up in his mouth, drags it across the desk, and hauls it up onto Treville's shoulder with him. 

Jason makes it curl around Aramis's paws -- 

"Mee." 

"You're entirely welcome --" 

(My good mother was a whore. Her name was Claudette d'Herblay, and she studied and learned and *worked* until she was the secretary of Madame Margaud's, in the Merchant's Quarter.) 

Treville wracks his *mind* -- 

(You have never been, my Daddy. I searched long and *hard*. None of your brothers were ever there, unless they went when I was very young, indeed.) 

"Mm. As you say, son -- I -- do you know we're grateful for this? Every bit of this?" 

(You are telling me this. You are *giving* me this with your every --) Aramis mews and scent-marks Treville's ear while gripping the shadow. 

Jason comes to sit on the corner of the desk. "We will hold this, Aramis. We will hold this, and keep it." 

"*Always*." 

(Yes. Yes, this,) Aramis says, and makes a soft sound of *hurt* -- 

Treville reaches up to stroke and pet Aramis's chest -- 

(My. My good mother taught and trained me. She trained me every *day*. My first memories are of her teaching me how to read -- and. And, when we were alone, in the mornings, when all the customers were gone, she would teach me words and phrases from *her* language. *Our* language.) And Aramis stiffens -- 

Digs in with his claws -- 

"Aramis... was the language, perhaps, a dialect of Caló?" And Jason raises an eyebrow -- 

Aramis says nothing. 

And Treville... lets those pieces fall right into place. "Son, I'll tell you like Laurent told all of us recruits when he tumbled us into a big group, irrespective of class. I was fourteen; the boy who would become my closest friend in the world -- and my very first true brother -- was close to fifteen. I was second-generation nobility, and carefully trained in how to act that way, so as not to get myself -- or my family -- killed. Honoré was the eldest of thirteen children, and he'd had to become the best damned poacher this country had ever seen just to help *his* family survive. 

"And we didn't know each other that day." 

(Which. Which day.) 

"The day Laurent -- our commanding officer -- took all of us gangling, idiot boys out in the hot sun and told us what was what. That a regiment rises and falls on brotherhood. That soldiers -- true soldiers, *great* soldiers -- understood that brotherhood could be found in the arms of anyone, from any background, and any class. That only the weak, foolish, and *ignorant* turned away from the brotherhood offered by the worthy just because the worthy didn't match some set, pat definition of what they ought to look like, or sound like... 

"Ah, son, he said it so much better than this. So much more *lyrically*. But, in the end, it came down to this: Baseless prejudices do nothing but keep a man -- a *person* -- from seeing the truth of the world around them. And that makes the person with baseless prejudices a *dangerous* liability in *any* military regiment. 

"Or, for that matter, any *family*." 

Aramis is silent -- 

Treville and Jason stroke him together -- 

(There... are those who say that prejudice against Rom peoples is, by definition, *not* baseless.) 

"Well, that's the *curious* thing, mon grand," Jason says, and tickles his chin again. "There are any *number* of people in this world who are capable of moving their lips and tongues and teeth and *et cetera* --" 

"And making *sounds* --" 

"-- *long* after their brains have lost the ability to *function*." 

"Mah!" 

And Jason bows over his hand. "In all seriousness, mon grand: One of my prior students was Rom. Eastern European rather than Spanish, and all of Eon's tribe save for his mother Ferka had been wiped out by the Christians. I... have a fair amount of information to work with." 

Treville turns and kisses Aramis's shoulder. "Soldiers act as parasites on the countryside we move through, son. If we *don't* make *damned* sure to befriend the people who *live* in that countryside? Whoever they happen to be? That countryside we're feeding on just might turn around and *poison* us. I *also* have a fair amount of information to work with."

Aramis presses close -- 

Shares more thoughtful scents -- 

More *calm* and *pleased* scents -- 

Treville rumbles helplessly -- 

(I... have always wished to be a soldier.) 

Treville suspects that he's grinning like a *fool* -- 

"You're grinning like a *dog*, amant. It's quite endearing." 

(Yes, this is so,) Aramis says, and scent-marks Treville's face -- (Good dog. Good dog.) 

"I -- about your being a soldier, son --" 

(I am. Not yet ready. To shift.) 

Treville takes a *breath* -- 

Aramis's scents are full of *hurt* -- 

"Oh --" 

(Is this. Is this well.) 

"Oh, son, of *course* -- I won't -- *we* won't *rush* you --" 

(Even though you wish me to. To be *bigger*. And --) 

"Shh, shh, oh, son, I --" 

"Mon grand. We do not *yet* know why you don't wish to shift, but we know *you* increasingly well --" 

"*That*. And -- we know you have a good reason. Or *several* good reasons." 

Aramis mews quietly -- 

Shares his *thoughtful* scents again -- 

They stroke him through it -- 

(My good mother...) 

"Yes, son?" 

"Tell us, please." 

(She would, I think, tell me to bind you -- all of you -- to myself. She would tell me to do it *firmly* and *surely* and. And to make sure you would *never* get free,) Aramis says, digging his claws in, just a little.

Treville grins -- 

And Jason hums and kisses the top of Aramis's head. "Then it's a good thing, mon grand, that you have already done just that."


	14. Let's get drunk and avoid eating rodents. Indefinitely.

Between the interrogations -- 

The brutality -- 

The politicking -- 

And, of course, the use of Aramis as both a club *and* a stiletto on the minds of the King's Musketeers' *current* worst problems -- 

They stay late. 

They stay late and eat *poorly*, and, the thing is, Treville may be doggish, but he's actually two *different* reasonably *intelligent* dogs. 

He knows how this goes.

If they do nothing but go home right now, it won't bloody matter how much he eats of whatever late supper Cook has waiting for them -- Aramis *will* supplement his diet. 

Probably Jason's diet, too.

So, really, this is the *best* idea. 

"Oh, *is* it?"

"Of course it is, lover," Treville says, stepping out of Jason's portal and into an alley that stinks so horribly that even the dog inside him is a little disgusted. "I. Where...?" 

"Paris, of course," Jason says, freeing Aramis from his protective cocoon of shadows and letting him leap to Treville's shoulder. "Well. *A* Paris." 

"Mee?" 

"We left our sphere, yes, son. So what's the story, lover? Why am I not glamouring myself? I don't exist here or something?" And Treville walks out of the alley onto a street that smells... marginally better. All right. 

"Oh, you absolutely do --" 

"But --" 

"You are, however, a twelve-year-old girl." 

Treville stops dead.

Stares -- 

*Stares* -- 

Aramis bats at his face -- 

"There, there, amant, I checked: You're *absolutely* still your father's favourite." 

"... well, that's all right, then," Treville says, and starts walking again. 

"... brrt?" 

"Are you *quite* sure you want to ask that question, mon grand?" 

Aramis's silence is just as thoughtful as his scents, which -- 

"I *will* answer, son," Treville says, and tips his hat to the baker's boy locking up shop for the night -- 

(You made this sound like a threat!) 

"It truly was, mon grand." 

(Tell me... tell me... I...) And the frustrated chuffing noises are far more adorable than they have any right to be, considering how much those claws are digging in. 

"We *can* pick this conversation up another time, son. We don't have to --" 

(I wish to know if your father had sex with you!) 

"Ah. Well, no." 

(No?) 

"Not at all, little one. Nor did he molest me, nor did he *assault* me, and he absolutely did not make *love* with me." 

(I.) 

"I would've taken... mm. Not all of those things. *Not* all. I wasn't *that* twisted round as a boy. I definitely would've taken *most*, though --" 

(My *Daddy*.) 

"He was my Dad, son. He was my Dad, and I was his little terror. He was the single most important person in the *spheres* as far as I was concerned. He was my *first* love -- and I wanted him like no one else for *years*. There is nothing I wouldn't have done for him, and there are few things I regret more in this life than the fact that I was never *honest* with him about that --" 

(Because... you might have had his touch?) 

"Not that, son. Your grandfather --" 

"MEE." 

"-- liked women and *only* women, and never once strayed from that particular predilection. No, I regret it because I never kept secrets from my Dad. I shared everything I *was* with him, and he never *once* made me feel like I was burdening him with myself. Instead, it was always clear -- abundantly so -- that every little thing I could give him about myself was a *gift*. A gift that he would *cherish* -- both right then and during all those times when he had to be apart from me." 

(Oh...) 

"So. While a great deal of me still sides with my adolescent self and feels that this secret -- *the* secret -- must be kept at all costs? The rest of me wants to *smack* my adolescent self with something large and *solid* until he gets it through his thick skull that we are *never* supposed to keep things from Dad. Not ever. No secrets. No lies. No *walls*. Because the alternative means depriving Dad of something he *wants*." 

(Yes! I see this thing!) 

"Good." 

(Very good!) And Aramis scent-marks Treville's cheek and temple. (My Daddy will be honest. My Daddy will be honest and open and *clear*.) 

"Always, son." 

(My Daddy will tell me why we are in another, filthier Paris tonight.) 

"That's easy enough, son: *Recreation*." 

(...) 

Jason laughs softly and sends shadows to tickle *both* Treville and Aramis -- 

"Mee --" (I -- my *Teacher* --) 

"Terribly sorry about that, mon grand," Jason says, lying with a *will*. "What you must understand is this: While you can scrub Treville's *reputation* reasonably clean with surprisingly little effort in the process of making him *fit* to be one of the most powerful men in France...?" 

(Yes? Yes what?) 

"You'll never actually scrub *me*, son," Treville says, throwing out an arm to keep Jason from walking forward -- 

"I *can* sense that precisely as well as *you* can --" 

"MEHR!"

And then two extremely large, bruised, bleeding, filthy, gin-soaked men all but *explode* out of the tavern they'd been walking beside, taking *both* doors with them -- 

Or -- no, they'd left a small, vaguely triangular fragment behind, dangling off the upper hinge -- 

And the men are growling and snarling like animals, grunting for every hit they land on one another, rolling about in the gutter -- 

And not one person from the tavern had followed them out to see if they could break things up, help, or even keep the fighters out of range of late-night carters on the road. 

Treville grins. "I think we've found our first drinking establishment, gentlemen." 

"ROWR." 

"Not to worry, mon grand. I exterminate the various pests Treville picks up once a week *every* week, as a matter of course." 

"Now, don't be so prejudiced, lover," Treville says, and steps over the struggling bodies. "Aramis may want to season something with some of that wildlife someday." 

Aramis growls low. 

"Have I mentioned that I love watching you step in it, amant? Because I *truly* do." 

Treville tips his hat to Jason; rights the cracked, rickety table that the fighters had obviously started at; takes a seat; and calls for the maid while Jason is still getting settled. 

Aramis leaps down to the table and bats gingerly at some of the wetter stains -- 

And the maid turns out to be a *burly* lass named Suzette with jet-black hair who outweighs Treville by at least two stone, absolutely all of which is muscle. 

She looks to have spent *most* of her working years *dockside* -- sounds like it, too -- pauses in the middle of taking their order to break the *leg* of the drunk who picks that moment to get mouthy with her -- and Treville cheerfully flirts with her for the better part of five minutes, because there isn't one garrison anywhere, on *any* sphere, who couldn't use someone like her to yank the men's spines into alignment... no matter what *job* she actually takes. 

In the end, Suzette pinches Treville's cheek like she means to take a goodly portion of his face *with* her when she leaves to get their decidedly alcoholic poison -- 

*Jason* gets a giggle -- or. 

Can giggles *be* that deep?

(My Daddy must not be so prejudiced,) Aramis says, and scent-marks Suzette's powerful fingers. 

Right you are, son, Treville says, and waits until Suzette has turned about before reaching up to massage life back into his face. 

"Admit it, amant. You're hoping she winds up attached to your *father's* regiment." 

"Lover, I want *every* good person I've ever *known* attached to my father's regiment, which can then take over the world, and run it a sight better than it ever *has* been run." 

(Not your own regiment, my Daddy? Not your Laurent's?) 

"Oh, son, no," Treville says, and caresses his little cat. "In my *best* dreams, I'm not the Captain of *any*-bloody-thing --" 

(I!)

"-- and I get to *rescue* *Laurent* from being the Captain, too." 

Jason cocks his head to the side and smiles. "One does wonder, in this moment..." 

(Yes! Why do you not wish to rescue your good father!) 

Treville laughs quietly and shakes his head -- and smiles ruefully. "My Dad was dead by the time I was sixteen. I'd barely had more than a *conversation* with him after I left his side to enlist at *fourteen*. I'm." Treville winces and shakes his head again. "I'm always a boy when I think of my Dad. And... boys can *dream* of rescuing people, but..."

('But', my Daddy?) 

"Mm. Maybe it's more simple than that, son: When I was a boy, I wanted to grow into someone who could protect my Dad from *all* of his enemies, and show him that I'd learned everything he'd ever *wanted* me to learn -- and learned it *perfectly*. That I'd grown into someone he could be proud of. That I'd grown into someone he could *trust*. But, before he died, I had never once dreamed of a day when I wasn't looking to the man for approval. For... validation. For proof that I *had* become the person I was supposed to become," Treville says, and looks to his loves with a wry smile. "He'll always be the General. *Always*. Even though, in truth, I've long since stopped being a recruit." 

Jason inclines his head -- 

And Aramis studies him thoughtfully.

He doesn't *stop* studying until Suzette returns with *their* gin -- never Treville's favourite, but absolutely the least toxic thing in this place, and he's drinking with his *son* tonight -- at which point he chirrups a greeting to her. 

She coos -- deeply -- and sets his remarkably clean and shallow bowl down first, pouring him a generous measure while Aramis scent-marks her other hand. 

Suzette then sets the bottle down, and -- 

There's nothing resembling tumblers for him and Jason. 

Well, then. 

Treville grins and takes a long drink, tips Suzette generously while handing the bottle to Jason -- 

Aramis is lapping his *right* up -- 

Jason drinks *deep* -- 

And Suzette gives them all an *approving* nod before patting Treville on the cheek so hard it knocks his hat askew. 

"If you keep this up, amant, we might have an even more *exciting* night than the one you originally *planned*." 

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it *thoroughly*, lover," Treville says, drinking and smacking his lips. "I'm remembering a lady of custom --" 

Aramis stops drinking and *looks* at him -- 

Treville winks. "Son. You should know that the most intelligent and *wise* soldiers look to the prostitutes among them as the family they always *should* have had." 

(I!) 

"Warmth in the dark. Soft touches. Understanding. *Peace* -- when there's often nothing of the kind for *miles* around," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. "*I* learned to respect whores before my cock worked for anything other than *pissing* -- and so did your *brothers*. Though, to be fair..." Treville growls. "Porthos came up hard, son. He learned even *more* reasons to respect the men, women, boys, girls -- and everyone in *between* -- who sold themselves. And I know you know *precisely* what I mean." 

"Mee!" (I -- I. You... he is still your son. He is... still...) 

"*Nothing* will change the fact that *all* of you are my *sons*, Aramis," Treville says, and -- he's growling. 

He's growling at his *son* -- 

Treville gives himself a *shake*. "Son, I don't mean to *menace* you --"

(My Daddy is a good man.) 

"I --" 

(My Daddy is a man of passion and *fire*.) 

"He truly is," Jason says, and drinks -- 

"I --" 

(My Daddy will let *no* one hurt his *family*.) 

Treville growls -- "Not *anyone*!" 

(This is well. I will remember this *always*,) Aramis says, and sticks his face back in his bowl of gin. (You will now say more of the lady of *custom* whom Suzette reminds you of!) 

"I -- are you --" 

(I am certain!) 

"Drink more, amant," Jason says, and passes the bottle. "It will help." 

"That it will," Treville says, and drinks -- 

And drinks -- 

And sighs and hands the bottle back to Jason. "Her name was Clotilde, and she was at least *eight* inches taller than I was at the time and a good *five* stone heavier. I was just turning sixteen and I was a scrawny little nothing of an Army recruit, but she was still..." Treville sighs happily. 

Aramis looks up, licking his chops. (This is your favourite sort of woman? Your Amina was very large for a woman, as well, but not --) 

Treville *coughs* -- "Ah..." 

(What? What is it?) 

Jason hums. "Before mon amant's spirit was bound to the dog's... he was rather more discriminating in his sexual tastes, mon grand." 

(Yes, I know this thing already --) 

"His tastes did not include the *fairer* sex, at all, mon grand." 

(I! But...) 

Treville smiles wryly. "Don't get me wrong, son -- I could and *did* still get it up for women. I *used* that to -- try to -- hide the fact that I was such a buggerer. But... there was no real passion. No real *fire*. No sense of *rightness*." 

(But -- your *mate*...) 

"I fell in love with my Amina in... moments. An *eyeblink*. Seconds to listen to her laugh *big* at one of her *own* filthy jokes, and then just keep telling more and more and *more*. She was so *dirty*, son. So -- raucous and bright and *big*. Taking over the world with her *light*," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "There were any number of times when things *started* to happen below the waist around her... but those things never quite went far *enough*. I was in love with her, but seducing her like that... it would've been like giving her half a man." 

"But," Jason says, drinking and then handing over the bottle --

Treville drinks and hands it *back* -- 

"Mm. Thank you *very* much, amant," Jason says, drinking and turning back to Aramis. "There is magic we can -- and will -- teach you which will allow you to augment your powers. You will *not* use this magic short of dire *emergency*, but... this is what was done with mon amant and his Amina. And this is what they chose with every fibre of their *being*, because the witches who *did* it --" 

"Amina's guardians, son," Treville says, taking the bottle back from Jason and drinking -- 

"-- *finally* let slip that, once Treville *did* allow his spirit to be bound, he would no longer be quite so sexually constrained." 

(Oh! Why did they not say *before*?) 

"Well. Their decision-making process was definitely *informed* by the fact that they *loathed* me, son," Treville says, drinking a little more and handing the bottle back to Jason -- 

(I WILL KILL THEM!) 

"Son --" 

"I have *absolutely* felt *precisely* the same temptation, mon grand --" 

"*Jason* -- what --" 

"*However*," Jason says, and drinks -- 

And hands the bottle back -- 

And coughs lightly -- "Mm. *However*, *two* of the three women in question were already dead by the time *I* entered mon amant's life --"

Aramis growls *viciously* -- 

"Aramis --" 

"Yes, quite," Jason says. "In any event, the remaining woman -- Ife -- remains alive because her attitude toward Treville improved *dramatically* once it became clear to her how *badly* she and her sisters had bollocksed things up, and how desperately important to Porthos's -- their *grandchild's* -- continued existence Treville's health and happiness were, even in a world where Porthos and Treville were *hidden* from one another by assorted curses." 

Aramis growls *more*. 

"Oh, no, I haven't forgiven her, at all, mon grand. But... she remains a useful *alternate* teacher for both mon amant *and* Porthos. And *that* is valuable currency with which any number of otherwise worthless individuals can buy, from me, years of continued mortal existence." 

Aramis *stops* growling -- "Mrrt." 

Jason inclines his head. 

Aramis starts drinking again. 

Jason looks at Treville *blandly* --

And Treville considers, for long moments, the pros and cons inherent to protesting... any of this. 

Jason raises an eyebrow at him. 

Aramis stops drinking and *looks* at him. 

Treville stops all that useless considering and drinks, like he's supposed to. 

"Good boy." 

"Thank you kindly, lover. Say, are we going to talk about your horribly traumatic life experiences, at all?" 

"Hm. No?" 

Aramis growls and lifts a paw, claws extended. 

Jason laughs hard. "As you *say*, mon grand. My lover, when I was little more than a --" 

"Lonely, grief-stricken, abused --" 

"-- *boy*," Jason says, and *glares* at Treville. 

Treville toasts him with the bottle and drinks. 

Jason clears his throat. "My *lover* --" 

"You'd know her as Morgan Le Fay, son." 

"*MEE*!" 

"She was *exactly* that bad, son," Treville says. "Worse, really --" 

"Who's *telling* this story?" 

"You never tell it *well*, lover," Treville says, and hands over the bottle. "Here, work on that for a while --" 

"*Arse* --" 

"All yours," Treville says, and turns back to Aramis. "Jason *nearly* got himself killed in an otherwise minor battle during Arthur's succession wars. He was a quite literal bloody mess, and everyone who saw his *basically* unconscious body thought he was dead -- none of the surgeons were around to say different." 

"Try to *avoid* meeting spiked flails with your *face*, mon grand," Jason says, and drinks. 

"Mah..." 

"Exactly, son. In any event, Jason decided *not* to die. He healed himself perfectly -- except for that little bump on his nose. He decided to keep that because he wanted to look more rakish and attractive, like an older soldier. He was a nineteen-year-old idiot." 

Jason drinks -- 

Aramis chirrups. 

"Lancelet, mostly, son. Apparently the man never met a cunt he didn't like -- and the people attached to those cunts tended to be entirely agreeable about that, especially after his nose got broken all over his face."

(There is nothing more attractive than a good, hard man's scars. All know this.) 

Jason laughs quietly and drinks *more* -- 

And Treville grins. "You're making us both wish we weren't *quite* so good at healing, son..." 

(Tell me more of the story!) 

"Right you are," Treville says, taking the bottle back for a quick drink before handing it back. "Mm. He healed himself. Cleaned himself up as best as he could. And he walked right into camp -- and found himself surrounded --" 

(Oh! Oh, no!) And Aramis leaps onto Jason's shoulder and scent-marks him aggressively, pressing close and sharing his scents. 

Jason shudders.

"Pet him, lover." 

"I..." 

"ROWR!" 

Jason groans and does just that, tugging Aramis even closer and growling -- 

"That's right," Treville says, and takes the bottle back. He drinks -- "Mm. Soldiers will take a lot from a fellow soldier who does good things for his regiment -- up to and including *blatant* witchcraft. But there's always a step too far. That step may be different at different times in different *places*, but it's a fair bet that you should never ask the generally ignorant, illiterate, and wildly superstitious to accept someone among them who they have every reason to believe is *undead*. You can guess how it went from there, son. 

"You can guess what it was like for Jason after Merlin and Arthur bought his life with some fast, pretty words about how the men weren't *really* looking at a revenant -- but couldn't make a single one of those men accept him as a brother, anymore. 

"What it was like to be a *healer* no one wanted to be *touched* by." 

Jason shudders and shudders -- 

Aramis mews and presses closer, still -- 

"*That* is when Morgan came, son. When she seduced, and offered *her* companionship, and *her* promises -- an end to all the loneliness, mm?" 

_And then, of course, she imprisoned Blood, defiled his body, and did her best to sacrifice him to *me*... in an effort to *enslave* me,_ *Etrigan* says. 

Aramis bats at Jason's aura curiously. "Mah...?"

_No, you're quite right. She would've accepted any fire-demon of my approximate strength. At the time, there even were a few other than myself to choose from, though all of them were dangerously senile._

Jason coughs a laugh. "*That*... could've been interesting." 

_Oh, indeed. You could've been bargaining for your life with an ancient who kept mistaking you for the elemental who broke her heart when she was nothing but a spark._

Treville *stares* -- 

Jason *snorts* -- "At which point Morgan would have murdered *both* of us?" 

_Not at all, Blood. If I recall correctly, Werrlan wasn't the sort to brook interruptions to her important conversations with any degree of patience. She clearly would've taken Morgan's interference as an excuse to melt your benighted countryside -- and everyone on it -- to a much more aesthetically-pleasant slag, and then gone back to remonstrating with you for your caddish behaviour._

"Remonstrating with my pile of ashes and *grease*, you mean?" 

_We truly were all hoping that your relationship with Treville would make you less of a pedant._

Treville *coughs* a laugh -- 

Jason glares at *him* -- 

And Aramis bats at Jason's aura *playfully* -- "Mrrt!"

_I quite like you, too, Aramis. As I know neither Blood nor Treville have mentioned this, yet, I will take the opportunity to inform you that Blood and I share control of this soul -- and body. The schedules we keep are fluid by necessity, but still as firm as we can make them, as we have learned to our detriment that we both do quite poorly without time and room to live our individual lives._

(This makes sense!) 

_Just the same, I do visit with Treville and his pack when I take control of this soul from time to time --_

(Oh! Please visit! I wish to learn from you, as well!) 

Etrigan's flames flare bright and terrifying behind Jason's eyes -- 

"Brrt?" Aramis climbs down off Jason's shoulder for a better look -- 

Leans closer -- 

"Mee!" 

"We are, in fact, significantly warmer than we were, mon grand," Jason says. "Etrigan tends to set fire to his surroundings simply by *existing*... when he doesn't tamp himself down very carefully, indeed." 

_Just as Blood tends to blood-curse everyone and everything around him... well, he does that to get to know a person, truly --_

"All *right* --" 

Etrigan hums like rock *quickly* being heated to the point of destruction -- _Until later. Do let me know when you'll be available for conversation, Aramis._

(I will do this thing!) 

And Jason's eyes fade back to that blood-soaked reddish brown -- 

He covers his face with his *hands* -- 

Aramis scent-marks those hands *vigorously* and *pointedly* -- 

"Belt up, lover. You've an impressionable child to impress things upon," Treville says, and drinks more. 

Jason drops his hands and gives him a withering look -- 

Treville snickers and drinks more before handing the bottle over -- 

"*Arse*," Jason says, and drinks *deep* -- 

(My Teacher...) 

"Mm? What may I tell you, mon grand?" 

(Will Etrigan always work to keep you from becoming lost in your terrible memories?)

"I..." 

"In truth, son," Treville says, and reaches for the bottle -- 

Jason hands it over -- 

Treville drinks -- "Mm. In *truth*, they do that for each *other*. Etrigan tends to use humour, Jason tends to use the direct application of companionship and bonhomie... well. They have a lot of darkness between them, and far too much grief. There's only so much *I* can do to ease things for Jason, no matter how much it burns to admit it --" 

"Oh -- *don't* --" 

"-- and so I'm *glad* -- happy beyond *words* -- that they *have* found ways to ease one another. To keep themselves from ever truly being alone," Treville says, and *looks* at Jason. 

"All right, *fine*. We're *healthy* about things. We've learned *lessons*. We're not complete *pillocks*." 

"Well," Treville says, and hands over the bottle with a grin. "Not *all* the time, lover." 

"Isn't there a rat anus you could be savouring at this very moment, amant? I've heard that they're the best *part*." 

"Brrt?" 

Jason's eyes fly open *wide* -- "*I* -- ah. Well. That is to say..." 

"Mrrt?" 

Jason *sweats* -- "It's only... ah. I don't... care for... ah..."

(But you must tell me what is good! You said you *enjoyed* the stew, and that had many rats, and I left the anuses --) 

"*Fuck*." 

"Mee!" 

Treville promises the All-Mother that, if She lets him get through this moment without laughing *obviously*, he will *definitely* be a much more dutiful seed from now on -- 

The All-Mother fills him with *Her* amusement, and Her love, and Her approval of everything he *is*, and it's all a great deal like being fucked in the middle of a tavern by a goddess while your terrifying child quizzes your equally terrifying lover.

(What *is* it about the anuses which makes them good!) And Aramis pads closer to Jason -- 

Reaches up to bat at his mouth with those rough little paw-pads -- 

"I -- Aramis -- I don't -- I truly do prefer things like *boar*, and *deer*, and --" 

(You cannot get this in the city! What is your city food!) 

Treville takes another drink. "You're not going to make it difficult for Aramis to *shop* for you, are you, lover?" 

Jason's stare has a *remarkable* number of things in common with being stabbed while set on fire, which -- 

In some ways, that's just another *Tuesday* with Jason, but -- Treville can be friendly, too. He takes a look around the room -- 

Hmm... oh. *Right* there. 

"Say, Aramis..."

(What!) 

"Porthos and I are the only dogs Jason has had in *centuries*." 

(I --) 

"He hasn't had a *cat*, at all," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"MEE!" And Aramis goes back to nuzzling and rubbing and scent-marking -- 

"Oh -- thank you, mon grand -- this is truly -- oh, I *adore* that --" 

Treville leans in a little to get some scritching in -- 

Uses his peripheral vision to note the *group* of toughs converging on their table, just as they're meant to -- 

Meets *Jason's* eyes -- and his expression is wry and amused and loving and warm and thrilled and -- 

Every wonderful thing. 

Jason tickles Aramis's scruff. "We're about to have *company*, mon grand..." 

(What --) 

And the lead tough swaggers in close enough to 'accidentally' knock into their table, causing Aramis's little bowl of gin to splash. 

Treville hums. "Careful, there." 

The lead tough -- a massive, carroty redhead with surprisingly good teeth -- sneers. "Why should I be, you little shit?" 

Treville grins helplessly. "My friend... you're about to make my whole night." 

"What the fuck are you talking about? And what kind of ponce brings their stupid little pussycat --" 

Jason hums. "Are you going to just *take* that, Aramis...?" 

Aramis's eyes flare with a *mad* golden light -- 

Treville and Jason shove their chairs back away from the table to give him *room* -- 

"What -- what the --" 

And, as war cries go, Aramis's is much closer to a yowl than it is to a roar, but -- 

"Don't be prejudiced, amant," Jason says, moving up beside him with the bottle. 

"You're absolutely right, lover," Treville says, taking a drink as the honestly bloodcurdling shrieks start to fill the air -- 

"Along with the arterial spray, yes." 

"I was taking that as read, lover," Treville says, and passes the bottle -- 

Jason drinks -- 

Treville ducks under what certainly seems to be a *thoroughly* detached arm -- 

Jason hands the bottle over -- 

Treville brings it to his mouth -- but some arsehole smashes it before he can actually drink, and that's just not on. 

"Oh, *absolutely* not," Jason says, setting up at his back -- 

And, after that, they *help* their little cat wreck the place from top to bottom -- though, in all honesty, Treville hasn't been Reynard's *meneur* in a very long time. There's only so much damage he feels moved to do, in this moment when absolutely none of their opponents have one *iota* of a chance against *any* of them. 

So: 

A few -- gently, not catastrophically -- broken bones. 

*Several* trips to dreamland. 

Multiple *moderately* crippling punches to the bollocks -- 

A moment to watch Suzette -- glorious Suzette -- pummeling someone with that detached arm --

Mm. 

(You must still tell us of Clotilde!) 

Treville checks -- 

Aramis is grooming his -- dripping -- paws from atop a small hillock of bodies, and -- everyone is down.

(Is that hillock made up of *corpses*, amant...?) 

Treville takes a moment to *check* on Jason --

Jason is busily robbing the dead on *his* side of the room so that he can supplement the income of Suzette and, if he turns out to be worth it, the *owner* of this establishment.

Treville nods in satisfaction and actually *focuses* on Jason -- Some of those bodies under our Aramis are still twitching a bit, lover --

(Hm. All right --) 

(I have robbed them just the same and provided the money to Suzette!) 

Treville sighs happily. "You're an excellent kitty, son." 

Suzette looks at him hard for long moments. The gore splashed over her features gives her a certain wild beauty -- 

Treville hums and makes a *leg* -- 

Suzette snorts. "Treville, you said? The General?"

"Just so, Mademoiselle," Jason says, and offers her a handkerchief. "There's always a need for women such as you --" 

She waves a hand -- and tosses the detached arm back over her shoulder. "*He* already made the sale. Just tell me where I can find a good kitty like that." 

Aramis purrs and sits up proud and tall.


	15. Treville may be unfit to pass muster, but he's *consistent* about it.

Jason doesn't let them walk into Treville's home -- on their *own* sphere -- without cleaning them thoroughly first with the shadows -- 

He sets *himself* on *fire* -- 

He washes Treville's *mouth* out with shadows -- 

Treville is coughing and *gagging* -- and then he's just coughing and gripping at the wall as Alaire, dressed in the livery he'd insisted on despite Treville *swearing* that they didn't have to be so formal -- 

Alaire opens the door. 

And *looks* at them. 

The burn-scars covering over half of his face -- the *only* thing which *would* have convinced Alaire to retire from the King's Musketeers other than death was, in fact, an injury which would get in the way of his vision, and, thus, his shooting -- twitch just a little *violently* at them --

And, really, it makes Treville feel *exactly* how drunk he is, and how grubby he *still* is despite the shadow-scrubbing, and how his posture is a disgrace, and how his hair is a mess, and how he'd damned well better shape up before he gets drummed out on his *arse* -- wait.

Wait. 

Wait. 

Just -- Treville takes a *breath*. 

And stands up. 

And *reminds* himself that he's Alaire's *employer*. "Good evening, Alaire. All quiet?" 

"Sir. Yes, sir," he says, and *glints* at him with those muddy brown eyes *exactly* like he'd seen that crisis of faith and it's warming the cockles of his flinty little heart. 

Treville nods and claps him on the shoulder. "Excellent. You're off-duty for the rest of the night, but I'll need you in the morning to --" 

"Sir is, perhaps, planning to visit the manor in the next two weeks?" 

"To... that. I. Yes. That." 

"I have taken the liberty of dispatching a rider to the chatelaine, explaining that the manor should be made ready for our arrival. I believe you'll wish the suite next to Porthos's for Aramis?" 

Treville stares -- 

*Stares* -- 

And remembers, for perhaps the ten *thousandth* time, everything his father had always said about how the best thing to do once you'd hired the most competent people possible was to just get out of the way and let them do their bloody *jobs*. So. "Right you are, Alaire. That will be perfect." 

Alaire inclines his head. "If there's nothing else, there is a meal waiting for the three of you on the hearth in your sitting room." 

"Mee!" 

"Yes, thank you *very* much, Alaire," Jason says. 

Alaire inclines his head to both of them -- and then raises his one remaining eyebrow at Treville.

Treville smiles wryly. "Dismissed, Alaire -- as ever with *all* of my gratitude." 

"Sir," Alaire says, bowing shallowly and departing. 

Jason hums. "Do you think he can *taste* your terror on the air, amant...?" 

"I certainly hope so, lover," Treville says, reaching up to give Aramis's chest a scritch before heading for the stairs. "You know I need my employees to have everything they need for their well-being." 

Aramis purrs and scent-marks him -- 

Jason laughs softly -- 

They take themselves toward food, and rest.


	16. It's important to set a mood when serving a meal. And when doing other things, too.

Treville wakes up because it's hard to breathe. It's -- 

There's a *weight* on his chest. A *heavy* weight on his chest, and -- 

It's dead. 

It's -- the scent of *fresh* blood is *everywhere*, as if Aramis had gone on even more of a killing spree than he had on the other *sphere*. This -- 

When Treville tries to move the heavy weight on his chest, he can feel that whatever it is -- and he's congratulating himself, in this moment, for doing such a good job of not thinking about it -- is sprawled seemingly *all* the way across the bed. 

Which means that it's *also* sprawled across *Jason* -- 

Who hasn't so much as --

"Oh, I'm right here beside you, amant."

"You -- what..."

"Give Aramis a moment. I believe he's lighting a few candles for us."

"I." 

But, sure enough, there's the sound of flint striking steel, and the candle on Treville's bedside table is lit, and that. 

Well. 

Well, on the positive side of things, Treville is reasonably certain that he's never met the tall, muscular, brown-haired, and exceedingly dead man currently cuddling them. 

"Are you quite sure about that?" 

"I..." 

"It's only," Jason says, and shifts around to get more comfortable -- 

Aramis lights the candle on *Jason's* bedside table -- 

"Oh, thank you very much, mon grand --" 

"Mee!" 

"Mm. As I was saying, amant -- I believe any number of people would find it difficult to recognize even their dearest, most beloved companions should they meet with those companions while they were dead, sprawled atop them, and had apples stuffed in their mouths." 

"MROW." 

"Terribly sorry, mon grand; it's true that it's only the one apple," Jason says, and turns back to Treville. "But you take my point?" 

"I do. Horribly," he says, and prods at the apple wedged firmly in the dead man's mouth --

At which point Aramis leaps onto the dead man's back and starts batting firmly at Treville's hand. 

"I'm. Not allowed to take the apple out, son?" 

(Presentation is important! This, Cook has taught me.) 

Treville stares. 

And. 

Cook -- who may or may not have a Christian name; he's never seen fit to share it with anyone who then saw fit to share it with *Treville* -- is a man Treville had stolen from the garrison *precisely* because he would not do things like try to serve Treville dainties arranged prettily on a plate in the name of things like presentation. 

Cook serves him meat, more meat, potatoes, and, if Treville behaves well, vegetables. 

Treville looks to Aramis. 

Treville looks to the apple in the dead man's mouth. 

Treville looks to the past several days, and the various supplements to his diet which, in retrospect, were almost certainly *all* aided and abetted by Cook. 

It's possible that Treville needs to have a conversation with Cook about...

"*Something*, amant...?" Jason is stretching beside him. 

Luxuriantly. 

Just like there *isn't* an unidentified dead man -- wait. 

"Son -- ah." 

(Yes? Yes what?) 

"I need to know who this *is*." 

(Before you *eat* him?) 

"Mon amant is delicate that way, mon grand --" 

"Oh -- you -- no. Son. Son. I... only very *rarely* eat human meat," Treville says, and holds firm. Holds *firm*. 

(But...) 

"Mm?" 

(Your dog, your good dog, he says that it is important to try to eat *everything* you kill.) 

Treville *blinks*. "I. When...? Did you have this conversation?" 

(While you were sleeping!) 

The dog reaches, from within, and explains that both he and the Aramis-cat had felt it would be better for Treville to continue getting his rest. 

Treville frowns. 

And frowns at Jason -- 

Jason *titters* -- 

"Jason." 

Jason coughs -- and sobers himself *badly*. "I -- ah. Mm. The dog, Aramis, and I had a marvelous cuddle while we were hashing things *out*, amant." 

"Really." 

"Oh, yes. And -- truly, Aramis, wasn't there more from the conversation that should be said?" 

"Mehr!" 

"More about how *you* feel about eating all your kills...?" 

(I...) 

"Yes...?" 

Aramis chuffs in frustration before turning to Treville. (Some kills are only for play! Some kills are only for *training*! But -- but -- this is *not* one of those kills! This is for *food*. Good *food*.) 

"Son --" 

(My Daddy, you work so *hard*! Every day! All know your work tires you! All know your work weakens your good spirit and *frustrates* you. My Daddy needs good, strong food to stay vital and healthy so that he can *always* be the man so many people *need* him to be. I. The man. The man that I need him to be.) 

And, in this moment, the only surprising thing about the fullness of Treville's heart -- 

The ache in his chest -- 

The *need* within him to do everything, be everything, *do* everything that his son *needs* him to do -- 

The only surprising thing is that he's *not* already chewing on the corpse -- 

*Why* isn't he -- 

Jason clears his *throat* -- 

Treville *pauses* in the process of lifting that limp -- though well-muscled -- arm to his mouth -- 

(My *Teacher* --) 

"Aramis." 

(*Please*, my Teacher, he has worked so hard, and tonight he was also *fighting*, and --) 

"Shh. Wait," Jason says, and holds up two fingers. "Wait for me." 

More chuffed noises of frustration, but -- (I will wait.) 

"Thank you. Now: I would never, ever argue with you about the fact that our Treville *often* works himself too hard --" 

(Yes --) 

"Shh." 

(I -- I -- yes.) 

Jason inclines his head. "I would not argue that. Nor would I argue with the fact that he *often* requires reminders -- many vicious and *pointed* reminders -- to *feed* himself adequately. On the other side of things, I would *also* not argue with either the joys or the *utility* of killing for play and training, and I *definitely* would not argue with killing *any* sort of being at *all* for *food*." 

(Oh. Any...?) 

"I have been hungry at *many* points of my existence, mon grand -- including *multiple* formative ones. My perspective has changed accordingly. Though... we can discuss *that* at another time." 

(Yes, my Teacher!) 

Jason sighs and caresses Aramis's face. "You are such a beautiful young man -- and an *entirely* superior little cat." 

(I --) 

"Shh. We're getting to the point of things, mon grand." 

(We... are?) 

Jason inclines his head. "You are caring for mon amant in many ways -- many wonderful and *beautiful* ways -- but, tonight? In this moment? You are caring for him as a mother cat cares for her young. You are caring for him as though he is a kit who has not yet learned to hunt for himself, and thus must be fed -- forcefully if necessary -- until he *does* learn. This raises *many* questions about you, and how you *came* to be who you are --" 

(No -- n-no --) 

"Shh. I am not *asking* those questions, mon grand. I am, in this moment, only asking *this* question," Jason says, and pauses with an eyebrow raised. 

Aramis inhales sharply. "Mrrt?"

"This, mon grand: Are you, tonight, *truly* caring for your father -- for *Treville*, a shifter-dog in his *prime* -- in the *most* appropriate ways?" 

"Mehhrr..." And Aramis is backing *away* -- 

"Jason, don't --" 

"Mon grand... is every *part* of you in *agreement* about how to care for your father?"

"*Jason* --" 

But Aramis is lifting up off his forepaws, shaking his head as though he smells something more foul than anything even *Paris* could provide -- 

Mewing so *harshly* -- 

"Oh, *son* --" And Treville drops the corpse's arm for good and all and gathers his little cat to himself, holds him gently, caresses and pets, rumbles to *soothe* -- 

Aramis pants and chuffs and *pants* -- 

"Shh, little one, it's all right, it's --" 

But then Aramis starts batting at Treville's mouth, his nose -- 

"Mm? Tell me. What do you --" 

(Dog. Give me... please give me --) 

Treville and the dog reach for the shift simultaneously, *yanking* themselves through the change -- 

And the dog picks up his Aramis-cat by the scruff and takes him away from the bed, and away from his Jason, who is still there, even though he is using his shadows to fade away, and make himself small. 

His Jason doesn't want to hurt his Aramis-cat anymore, and that is understandable, but...

But maybe, this time, the hurt had to happen.

The dog keeps that thought to himself with the help of MOTHER, and carries his Aramis-cat to the pile of softs he keeps in his Porthos's den. 

There are many good scents here -- sweaty and dirty clothes worn at happy times by *all* of the pack -- and, now that he's here, he can see that his Aramis-cat has added even more since the last time the dog had been here to examine it. 

A claw-torn shirt from Treville -- 

A more recent set of his Porthos's breeches -- 

More of his Jason's shadows --

Very good. Very nice.

The dog sets his Aramis-cat down, fluffs up the good scents with his claws, and then curls around him with his nose pressed to his Aramis-cat's smaller nose. 

After a time, his Aramis-cat sighs.

The dog perks his ears -- he is listening now. 

(I am not supposed to be a male cat, Dog.) 

This is a very strange statement, and so the dog considers it for a very long time to make sure he'd heard it the way the Aramis-cat meant to say it. 

And then he asks MOTHER -- 

MOTHER tells him he should ask questions, like a good dog. 

He *is* a good dog. Why shouldn't you be a male cat? You are a boy inside! An Aramis-boy, just like I am a Dog-male, and a Treville-man. And... and... but. 

There is something...

And the dog is blinking. Very much.

His Aramis-cat shares his laughing-scents. (Yes? You see?) 

The cat the Aramis-boy merged with was female?

(Yes. She was. She was one of my teacher Josette's familiars. Her name was Châtiment. Josette, she liked the little joke of it.) 

And... it is the boy in Aramis-cat speaking to him n0w. It is Aramis-*boy*, and -- and... should Aramis-cat be Châtiment-cat? 

Aramis-boy makes himself small and small, and his scents are hurt and full of hatred for himself. 

The dog presses closer and licks, rumbles, rumbles to *soothe*, rumbles to *care* -- 

(I -- oh, Dog, I chased Châtiment *away* when she merged with me! I -- I -- I swallowed her *whole*!) 

The dog cocks his head to the side. Which of those?

(I -- what?) 

Which did you do? If Châtiment-cat merged with you, she must have cared for you very much, or at least thought it was important to do -- 

(She --she was *loving*, and kind, always *good* to me, and -- she knew I *needed* her --) 

And my Aramis-boy is big inside, and very strong. Very strong. Châtiment-cat must have thought the danger was great if she decided to merge with you -- 

(She -- she would *speak* with me, when I was alone, and frightened, and -- and *melancholy*. She would keep me from weeping when my father would -- would hurt me. And. Hurt me.) 

The dog growls low. Where is that human. 

(Oh! I. We. When Châtiment merged with me -- I. We killed him first. We -- there was. We did not toy with him as much as we both wished to do.) 

Often this is the way, the dog says, and licks, and grooms, and softs. 

(I --)

Châtiment-cat was with you then. When you were killing the bad father?

(Yes! And then. Then she... faded.) 

What did she say? 

(She said. She said that she had done what she was always meant to do. She said that she had always thought her witch's student would be a girl, like her. She said. She said. She *apologized*, Dog! And I -- I couldn't *stop* her from doing it, no matter how hard I tried --) 

Why did she apologize? 

(Because I would be changed. Because my *mark* wouldn't be right when I shifted back into human form. Because she wasn't able to give me a male cat, and so I would not be *correct* --) 

You are correct, Aramis-boy.

(I.) 

Your boy-spirit is correct, even though your cat-spirit is also correct, even though it's female. You are Aramis-cat, and you are correct.

(I... hm.)

The dog checks -- yes. You are Aramis-cat, and MOTHER says you are just as you should be, just as Châtiment-cat was just as she should be, just as you were both as you should've been when you were two different people. 

(She... hm. That is... remarkably... you speak to the goddess very often, I think.) 

She is MOTHER. 

(Yes, you've said this, but --) 

The dog noses at the Aramis-boy's belly and groin -- 

(I!) 

Noses and licks and licks and *licks* -- 

(Dog -- you -- *what*!) 

Holds his Aramis-boy still with one paw and licks more thoroughly, licks better, licks *better* -- 

(*Please*!)

And -- there. The dog pulls back and licks his chops. Your cock isn't barbed, Aramis-boy. That means it won't be barbed when you shift. I think this is what Châtiment-cat meant about your mark.

His Aramis-boy stares at him. 

The dog perks his ears. 

His Aramis-boy continues to stare. 

The dog croons a question. 

(I. Ah. Well.)

Yes?

(This is, now that I consider it, probably for the best.) 

Yes. Even knots can be tricky, Aramis-boy.

(I... yes,) his Aramis-boy says, and settles his head on his paws. (Châtiment... she said. She said... she would not be able to stay with me. Not... completely. Not the way other cat-spirits stayed with their humans -- or. I know that I am not human, but --) 

Yes, I understand you, Aramis-boy, the dog says, and considers -- 

And asks MOTHER-- 

MOTHER says Aramis-boy does not open to HER the way he should, but is getting better. Patience is always necessary with the young. 

This makes sense -- 

(Were you. You were speaking with... the goddess. Again.) 

With MOTHER. 

(I -- yes. Hm. Yes. I... what... what does... She say? About me?) 

That you should speak with HER, Aramis-boy. 

(Ah. Hm.) 

Also that your Châtiment-cat could not... the words are very hard, Aramis-boy. I am going to ask Treville to help me say them. 

(Oh! But --) 

I will not wake him up, the dog says, and grooms, and softs, and reaches for Treville *carefully* -- 

Searches for his words -- 

His ideas and -- and *concepts* -- 

Oh, *there*. The dog focuses on his Aramis-boy again -- 

(Yes? You know?) 

Yes! When your Châtiment-cat came to you, it was not a true and complete birth, a true and complete *giving*. This can only happen when MOTHER *helps* the cat -- or other not-human -- become one with the witch the cat chooses -- 

(Did. Did the goddess not *wish* for this to happen?) 

MOTHER always wants more children, Aramis-boy, and you are *more* her child now than you were before Châtiment-cat merged with you. 

(Then... what?) 

The dog *asks* -- and learns. MOTHER says your Châtiment-cat did not wait for MOTHER. MOTHER says your Châtiment-cat did not even *tell* MOTHER about you before she was leaping into your spirit -- 

And his Aramis-boy's hurt-scents rise and rise -- 

The dog grooms, the dog licks, the dog nuzzles and *presses* -- 

He will *always* soft -- 

(He was hurting me again. He -- the bad father. Josette had died the week before, and had not been able to protect me for... a while before then. Other cats had *tried* to protect me, but he. The bad father had hurt *them* --) 

Your Châtiment-cat could not wait any longer. 

(I should've been *stronger*! I should've --) 

She made you *both* stronger, Aramis-boy. Now the bad father is dead, and rotting, and all the other cats have sharpened their teeth and claws on his bones. 

(I.) 

Do you think your Châtiment-cat has regrets?

(She. She said she did *not*, but --) 

Do you think your Châtiment-cat would lie to you and treat you like a *foolish* pup? 

(Oh -- no! Never!) 

The dog rumbles and nuzzles. 

Aramis-boy pants several times -- 

Wriggles -- 

And then settles, heart beating fast. 

They stay right there for long moments. 

The dog scratches at the clothes to fluff the scents -- 

Aramis-boy does the same -- 

The dog rumbles and licks -- 

(Dog, I.) 

The dog perks his ears. 

(Will you... teach me? How...) And Aramis-boy doesn't finish the thought -- 

And he *pants* again -- 

And he makes *hurt* purring noises, *wrong* purring noises -- 

But the dog knows what is needed in *this* moment: 

He reaches within the Aramis-boy for everything which makes him who he is, and he *gives* Aramis-boy everything that makes *him* who he is, waiting for Aramis-boy to reach back, to hold, to *grip* -- 

(I want -- oh, I *want* --) 

Everything is yours, the dog and Treville say together, and they tug Aramis out of himself slowly -- 

Slowly and *carefully* -- 

They show him *how*, because he's a pup, and he's been hurt, and you must always be *gentle* -- 

They love so *much* -- 

"I -- I love *you*!" 

And Treville is panting, confused, full of the *sudden* wash of information about the prior hour's conversation -- 

He's not confused any longer. 

He's not -- 

He's in love, and the boy in his arms in the dog's bed is long and lean and *unreasonably* beautiful -- 

The boy in his arms has pale golden skin with too many scars; amber-brown eyes full of *wonder* as he stares at his own callused fingers; and thick, chestnut hair shot through with gold tumbling down and down -- hm. 

It's long enough, at this point, that it would almost certainly reach the middle of his *back* were he standing up. And. 

And Treville cannot keep himself from caressing that beautiful face. "My son." 

"Am I still *lovely*, my Daddy?" And those eyes go from wondering to *wicked*, just that fast.

Treville coughs a laugh. "I..." 

Aramis raises a *sharp* eyebrow -- 

And so Treville *yanks* on a judicious expression -- 

Strokes his *beard* -- 

And makes a show of looking Aramis over. 

"My Daddy --" 

"Your fur's looking a little patchy, son --" 

"I!" 

Treville lifts a deft, strong hand and sucks his teeth. "I don't see how you expect to slit *any* throats with these claws." 

Aramis's growl is lower and deeper than it had been -- and still *entirely* feline. Mm. 

Treville grabs one slim hip and turns Aramis on his side as perfunctorily as *possible* -- 

"My *Daddy* --" 

And then he just stares at that creamy, round, muscular...

"*Yes*?" 

"Son, I'm going to be *extremely* honest with you right now," Treville says, and looks *up*. 

Aramis gives him a *mean* look. 

"I have *utterly* forgotten whatever idiotic, arsehole-ish thing I *had* been planning to say --" 

"Why is this!" 

"Because, in *this* moment? I have become entirely confounded by the question of which of my wonderful sons has the most beautiful; most perfect; most morality-, sanity-, and *honour*-destroying *arse*." 

Aramis stares at him. 

Jason snorts from the doorway -- 

"Yes, lover? Did you have an opinion on the matter?" 

"My *opinion* is that it would be a *foolish* and *pedantic* waste of time to be so *reductionist* about *art*." 

_Finally, he sees sense,_ Etrigan says. 

They all *pause* -- 

_Do carry on._

"Right you are," Treville says, and strokes Aramis's chin with his thumb. "All right, son? What do you need?" 

Aramis colours like a much, much younger boy, and -- 

And Treville can remember *how* to be *responsible* -- 

Sometimes. 

He smiles ruefully and stands, helping Aramis to his feet, as well. "Shall we find you some clothes? I *believe* you'll fit quite well in some of my own older clothes until we can get the tailor in --" 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis squeezes Treville's hand and then turns to Jason without letting go. "Am I beautiful to *you*, my Teacher?" 

"Aramis. Even had my aesthetic not broadened rather *dramatically* over the past six hundred years of fucking my way through *many* species? *You* would still be *remarkably* beautiful -- inside and *out*." 

"This is *good*," Aramis says, and turns and reaches for Treville's shoulders -- 

"Yes, son?" 

\-- and frowns. 

And Treville gets it. "Get closer to me *this* way, son," he says, and pulls Aramis in, skin to skin and -- so warm. 

So sleek and warm and Treville's rumbling, petting -- 

Reaching for Jason even as his beautiful boy does his *best* to scent-mark Treville's face -- 

"I must -- I must *mark* --" 

"We are *entirely* in favour of this, mon grand," Jason says, kissing Aramis's shoulder softly as he presses close -- 

Holds them *close* -- 

"Oh. I..." 

"Mm? What is it, son?" And Treville gives that downy, still-beardless cheek a lick.

"Mehr -- I -- I apologize --" 

"Shh, mon grand. All is well," Jason says, and kisses Aramis's other cheek. "We have not yet begun your lessons on maintaining the *appearance* of humanity." 

"But we must!" 

"Very true, son. But not yet," Treville says, and squeezes Aramis tight -- 

"Mee -- I -- my Daddy feels very good. My Teacher feels very good. I want..." 

Jason growls softly. "Do you understand that you may have *anything* you wish, mon grand?" 

"Everything, son. *Everything*." 

And Aramis's smile is -- brilliant. Broad and soft at once -- 

Bright and *wild* as he works his arms free enough that he can hold both of them, squeeze tightly, nuzzle with his entire *body* -- 

Treville grins -- 

Jason laughs delightedly. "Yes, Aramis...?" 

"I want -- I want to *mark*, my Teacher, and this body --" 

"Your -- and *our* -- scents are strongest in *other* places, mon grand...?" 

"Yes! You see! Let us please lie *down* --"

Treville rumbles and leans in to nip the corners of his beautiful boy's mouth -- 

"Oh -- oh, yes --" 

"I'm not averse to this plan in the slightest, son --" 

"Then why are we not --" 

Jason clears his *throat* -- 

"*What*." And, when Aramis glares in this form... 

Mm, no, it looks like *precisely* as much wanton murder as it does when he's in cat-form. 

"Beautiful, son," Treville says, and licks a long stripe up Aramis's cheek -- 

"Ai! You -- no, you must tell me --" 

"There is, I must remind you *both*," Jason says, and *looks* at Treville --

And Treville yanks his brain out of his trousers -- oh. "Ah. Son. About the *corpse* in my bed?" 

"Ah! We will make love in our *Porthos's* good and fragrant bed," Aramis says, and nods, and smiles, and Treville's brain migrates south once more -- 

Jason clears his throat again. 

"My Teacher --" 

"We must know the *identity* of the corpse, mon grand," Jason says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Aramis frowns... beautifully. 

"Son --" 

"But..." 

"We are listening, mon grand." 

Treville puts his cock away -- 

Focuses on... *focusing* -- 

Aramis, if anything, frowns even *more* beautifully -- 

But Treville is capable of thinking of more than one thing. "Son? It's all right..." 

"No, my good Daddy, I am merely *confused*." 

"Shh, shh, let's work it through, then, mm?" And Treville cups the back of Aramis's long neck because he *must* -- 

Strokes *gently* -- 

Aramis purrs and nuzzles his face -- 

Treville rumbles -- 

Aramis squeezes *both* of them again -- 

Jason hums and licks Aramis's ear -- 

"Oh, yes --" 

"Tell us your thoughts, mon grand. Please." 

"But this is so much more interesting!" 

They laugh together -- 

Treville play-growls and nips Aramis's other ear -- 

"Ah!" 

"Tell us, son. Tell us everything all the *time*." 

Aramis purrs and purrs, open-mouthed and so sweet, so -- "I do *not* know his name, my Daddy, my Teacher..." 

"All right, son. Where did you *find* him?" 

"Yes, *do* tell --" 

"He was, with his four companions, lurking near the stables across the street --" 

"Oh, dear." 

Treville's bollocks *creep* -- "Son. Son, what were they -- what did you do with --" 

"I dragged the others to the alley behind the kitchen, my Daddy, and told Alaire and Cook about them --" 

"Oh fuck --" 

"-- had a very good conversation about why you must never choose pistols -- or even wear your pistols! -- when you wish to complete an assassination --" 

"Oh... yes?" And Jason is back to sounding *interested* -- 

Treville is still staring. 

"*Yes*, my Teacher. Alaire was very clear about how firearms, while wonderful weapons, could become even the *best* shooter's weakness, with only a few shifts in such things as health, weather, and the senses of your target's neighbours!" 

Well. "That's entirely the case, son --" 

"Yes! Yes, it is! And my Daddy, I would not try to feed you the other men --" 

"I... no?" 

"No! None of them were as healthy as they should have been, save one, who was nevertheless very stringy." 

Jason *coughs* -- 

Treville suspects he looks *wounded* -- no. He is *better* than -- no. "Lover, would you --" 

"I have already disposed of the bodies -- and everything that came *with* them -- in the *hungry* spaces which exist between the spheres, amant." 

"Mee?" 

"There are *beasts* there, mon grand. They will remember who has given them this fine gift." 

"This is good! Now we will fuck --" 

"I -- just to be clear, lover," Treville says, and licks Aramis all over his perfect face -- 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Aramis dispatched an assassination squad which had been sent to dispatch *you*, amant. You're going to have to figure out *which* moderately-wealthy enemy you've annoyed *this* time." 

"Mm. There *are* just a few options..." Treville sighs and sets the thought aside for the moment before lifting his beautiful boy into his arms -- 

"Oh! My Daddy!" 

"Hold me tight, son --" 

"I will do this!" 

"We're not *actually* fucking in Porthos's den until Porthos is here to *help*."

"But we have to leave good scents for him! Good *scents*!" 

Jason hums and wraps a shadow round that *entirely* un-barbed cock, giving it a *rough* squeeze -- 

"HNH -- MEE!" 

"Oh, *agreed*, mon grand. We *must* make you spend --" 

"Yes -- *yes* --" 

"We have to work that gorgeous cock of yours --" 

"And, to be fair, amant, those *lovely* balls --" 

"Mrrt!" 

"Can't forget those, no, lover. We have to make you spurt all *over* my suite --" 

"And, of course, all over *us*," Jason says, and gives Aramis another squeeze --

"MAH!" 

"So that you can take the *decidedly* female cat inside you back *here*, son --" 

"I." 

"And roll all *over* the bedding, mon grand. And all over Athos's bedding, too..." 

Aramis wriggles with *excited* helplessness -- 

Treville squeezes him *tighter* as they move back into Treville's suite -- 

"Daddy, *please* --" 

"You want to, don't you, son...?" 

"I -- I --" 

"You want us to make you smell *good*," Treville says, and *puts* his son on the bed, right in the center -- 

"Please --" 

"And then, mon grand, you wish for us to let you *free* for long enough to mark absolutely everything with every scent-gland you *have*." 

Aramis stares at them wide-eyed and *hungry* -- and just a little worried. 

Treville nods and climbs on the bed beside him -- 

Jason takes Aramis's other side -- 

And Treville strokes Aramis's face with his fingertips. "Tell us what's frightening you, little one." 

"Tell us," Jason says, and splays one strong, *hard* hand low on Aramis's belly, "what is taking you *away* from us in this moment." 

"No! I! I will never *leave* --" 

"But you are hiding from us, mon grand..." 

"I do not mean to *do* this thing, my Teacher. I do not --" Aramis growls and clutches at the sheets. "My Daddy knows of my blood-father, and you... you have... watched? Those conversations?" 

"I have, indeed," Jason says, and caresses Aramis's belly. "Did he, perhaps, have something to say about men and boys who sold themselves to other men? About boys who had, perhaps, begun to come of age entirely free of the *influence* of *virtuous* men like himself?"

"I..." 

"About *many* things along those lines, son?" And Treville presses his thumb to Aramis's chin and tilts his face up just a little. 

"My Daddy, my Teacher... we all know the answers to these questions." 

"Then I believe we all know what *we*, as your parents, wish you to understand in this moment," Jason says. 

"What *lessons* we mean to teach." 

Aramis winces -- and then takes a breath. "My good mother would teach the same lesson. My good mother taught this lesson before I could *walk* without *staggering*." 

"We should say, mon grand..." 

"We are *exceedingly* fond of your good mother," Treville says, and *strokes* Aramis's chin with his thumb. 

Aramis smiles and looks down -- but doesn't try to duck his head. "She left Spain and took a new name when she was... I *believe* that I am nearly seventeen in human years now. She was just this age when she left her people in Spain, and became Claudette d'Herblay. She..." Aramis frowns and tugs fitfully at the duvet with his long fingers. "I -- do not wish to tell this tale. Not now."

"We can wait for it, son --" 

Aramis frowns more *darkly* and nods. But -- "My good mother knew precisely who had impregnated her, and they even continued the affair for some time after I was born. He was very impressed with my mother's grace, and intellect, and charm, and *worldliness*. He was a boy from a wealthy *enough* -- if provincial -- family from the merchant class, and it pleased my good mother to take his money until he grew tired of her -- as he undoubtedly would.

"When he left to 'educate himself so that he could, someday, be more worthy of her', she and everyone else at Madame Margaud's *knew* that he would never return. My good mother used this, with me, as a lesson on the nature of young 'love'. But." Aramis's expression crumples for a long moment -- 

"Oh... mon grand. He came back for *you*, yes?" 

"Yes, my Teacher. The marriage he had made to a 'good' woman ended with her dying of her 'womanly weakness' without *issue*, and he remembered that he had a son in Paris. He brought rich gifts for me, and threats for my good mother and Margaud. I... my good mother did not allow me to kill him. She did not give me that *permission* --" 

"He'd brought guards with him. Hadn't he, son." 

"*Yes*, but --" 

"And I daresay he didn't say one damned thing to your *mother* that implied that he'd ever hurt his good, smart, *useful*, *male* child. As opposed causing all sorts of misery to you *through* your mother and her place of business if she didn't... surrender," Treville says. 

Aramis... slumps. "This is so. He -- he had learned cunning, in the years since he had first left my good mother." 

"He trapped you, he *took* you, he *hurt* you, he filled your mind with all kinds of shite -- wait. You said the first wife... he'd picked up *religion* while he was away from you all. Hadn't he, son." 

Aramis sneers. "He dreamed of a bishop in the family, my Daddy. He dreamed of the *earthly* power of such things, and he knew -- he knew absolutely nothing about the religion he called his own. 

"This did not surprise me. My good mother had taught me much about this, and showed me the many clerics who came to our brothel full of lies and hypocrisy and *ignorance*. I had read the Christian bible as part of our -- our *cover*, but it was, ultimately, less *useful* than simply parroting the most popular prejudices when it seemed most appropriate." 

Treville grunts and *winces* -- 

Jason inclines his *head* -- 

"You both know this thing. This is good," Aramis says. "It was better in the little world of the brothel... but the world was little. Once I was out of it... you know. You know. 

"And then my blood-father had me, and he," Aramis says, and stops, and frowns again. "My good mother would be very disappointed in me, I think." 

"Oh, son, *why* would you think that?" 

"I was never supposed to -- to eat *trash*. I was never supposed to swallow *poison*. Here, you and my Teacher are showing me that I have done just this, in the most *pathetic* ways -- NNK --" 

And Jason is *absolutely* strangling their child with a shadow -- 

Gently, which is good -- 

"Aramis. Listen very well." 

(I will listen!) 

Jason inclines his head. "Just this: While it is the case that interrogations carried out at length under heavy torture will eventually lead to the recovery of information which is at best inaccurate and at worst a pack of *hopeful* lies designed to make the torture *end*...?" 

(Oh! I will remember -- but please tell me!) 

"There is *one* thing which can almost *always* be done to humans -- and human witches -- *very* effectively using the blunt instrument of torture, mon grand, and that? Is the *teaching* of *lessons*." 

(I -- no --) 

"Oh, yes, mon grand. There are, ultimately, quite few things which can chisel a point *in* as deeply, as *quickly*, as finding the thing which hurts your 'student' the most and doing it *repeatedly* until they show you how well they've *learned*," Jason says, and caresses Aramis's belly even as he uses the shadow to force Aramis to keep meeting their eyes. "Think about it." 

(I. I will do this,) Aramis says, and licks his lips -- 

And shudders -- 

And shudders *violently* -- this was never going to take very long. 

After another moment, he turns to Treville. (You. This is a lesson my Daddy would teach, as well.) 

Treville inclines his head. 

(Please tell me how,) Aramis says, and his inner voice is low -- 

*Subdued* -- 

(Please.) 

"Son... I'd make you think, for just a moment, about Lombric in the Musketeer dungeons today --" 

(Oh --) 

"-- and just what a difficult time you *didn't* have with your re-education program once you'd taught the man what it was like to *truly* fear." 

Aramis winces. (I do not. I do not wish to be...) 

Jason tugs the shadow free with a gesture -- 

They both press close once more -- 

Jason cups Aramis's jaw -- grips it -- 

"My Teacher --" 

"We are only as monstrous as our acts, mon grand --" 

"I --" 

"-- and who we commit those acts *against*, son," Treville says, and strokes Aramis's cheek with his thumb. "And? Who we commit those acts *for*." 

Aramis blinks, and the expression in those eyes... 

He is *absolutely* thinking of his mother in this moment, and what *she* would have to say about this particular lesson. 

Treville has no problem whatsoever with the prospect of being asked to measure up to the regard of a dead woman. He's been *demanding* that everyone around him measure up to his *father's* regard since he was *sentient*. 

And Jason -- 

Well, that's a good question, actually. "Lover --" 

"No, amant. I do *not* demand that all of my loves measure up to King Arthur's opinions." 

"No?" 

"Arthur was, in the end, a *trifle* limited -- as all Kings *must* be in order to get anything *done*. No, amant, I'm *quite* satisfied if my loves simply continue to measure up to the regard of the ghost of Ser Darwyn in my mind --" 

Treville snorts -- 

Aramis glares at both of them -- 

"Oh, don't make that face, mon grand. I daresay your good mother might have allowed my Ser Darwyn to kiss the air above her fingertips at some point --" 

"If he bathed, lover." 

"If he bathed, yes --" 

"And you exterminated all the wildlife in that magnificent beard of his." 

"Well, that goes without *saying*, amant --" 

Aramis growls at them beautifully -- 

"Oh, son, you --" Treville rumbles and shoves him flat to the bed -- 

"Ai! My *Daddy*!" 

"Tell us what you need. *Show* us what you need." 

"Or," Jason says, and strokes a *hard* line up Aramis's belly with two fingers -- 

Aramis gasps and arches -- 

"Let us pleasure you *mindless*." 

Aramis looks to both of them --

His eyes are wide again just that *quickly* -- 

"It -- it has been so *long*..." 

"Perhaps..." And Jason circles one of Aramis's copper-coin nipples with his fingers. "Perhaps your body was not *entirely* certain what it desired while you were in cat-form?" 

"I was -- I was too *young*. There was a *voice*, or a -- *something*. It *told* me I was too young, even though I had been *selling* myself at Madame Margaud's for nearly a year before my blood-father took me!" 

Treville and Jason blink *together* -- but. "We're beginning to see the *various* reasons why all of this had you so twisted up, son," Treville says, and licks his lips. 

Aramis laughs quietly and ruefully and, perhaps, a little hysterically. 

Jason hums, leaning in to kiss Aramis's forehead. "Mon grand. We desire you, but we do not desire your fear, your discomfort, or even your *annoyance*. We can -- and should -- *speak* more." 

Aramis wriggles between them -- 

Frowns -- 

*Starts* to turn over -- 

Growls and *stops* that -- 

Wriggles more while *gripping* Treville's shoulders --

*Growls* more -- 

"Son... the cat in you is going to want very specific things, at very specific times, in very specific ways --"

"I do not like this!" 

"You're *going* to love it, mon grand," Jason says, gripping Aramis's chin a little firmly. 

"I --" 

Treville slips a hand beneath Aramis's head, gripping a great handful of his soft hair -- and the back of his neck. 

Aramis gasps and *focuses*. "My Daddy! I am listening!" 

"You're going to love it, son. You're going to *wallow* in your animal side. You --" 

"*No* --" 

Treville growls low and grips just a little harder. 

Aramis *pants*, pupils dilating and body going *loose*. "I -- I am listening. I am -- please." 

Treville inclines his head. "Your cat couldn't stay with you. Not completely. That's a tragedy beyond the telling of it -- not least because she hasn't been there to *guide* you in this. We... are going to do the best we can to help. Starting now." 

"Yes, my Daddy! Yes, my Teacher!" 

"This, mon grand," Jason says, and taps on Aramis's chin with his thumb. "Châtiment left enough of herself with you that you cannot help but know where you *belong*. I daresay you didn't mean to stay in the filth and muck and *noise* of Paris once you knew you couldn't have your good mother again, but...?" 

Aramis blinks. "I. I had to. I had to go to the garrison. I had to -- go to my Daddy."

Treville growls a little more -- 

Looms -- 

"You're my cat, aren't you, son." 

"Yes! Yes!" 

"And you knew that -- down deep -- right from the beginning." 

Aramis's purr is breathless, low, hungry -- 

"It feels *correct*," Jason says, and tilts Aramis's head back just a little. Just enough to force his nape into Treville's hand a bit more. 

Enough to bare his lovely throat. 

"It feels correct to *be* his cat. Doesn't it, mon grand." 

"I -- I do not --" 

"Yes or no, son," Treville says, and opens up his personal force -- 

Aramis purrs and purrs and --"Yes! Always!" 

"And it feels even better to have him so close to *scruffing* you, yes...?" And Jason's shadows are creeping closer and closer... 

"I..." 

"Son. We all know you want to turn over and lift your beautiful little arse," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I wish -- I wish to *choose* to make love in this way! I wish t0 -- my good mother --" And Aramis chuffs at them, scents going a little jangled and frustrated. 

Treville strokes and pets Aramis with his free hand --

Jason does the same thing with his shadows -- "It's all right, mon grand. Please tell us what you need to." 

"I. I. Yes?" 

"We'll always want to know, son." 

"We will always *need* to know," Jason says. 

"This is so? Even when your cocks are hard and aching?" 

"There are few things my cock aches for *more* than the opportunity to teach the brilliant -- and brilliantly mad --" 

"MEHR!" 

"Which is just to say, son... we *can't* teach you properly if we don't know every little thing about you." 

"We cannot do *anything* properly without knowing you, mon grand," Jason says. "We need this." 

"We need you," Treville says. "*All* of you." 

The wave of spirit-magery is quick, warm, and thorough -- and Aramis nods. "My good mother, she allowed me to stretch myself all I wished with *toys*, but I was *not* allowed to sell my *arse*." 

Treville blinks -- 

Jason sighs happily. "Do tell..." 

"My good mother believed that I must choose when and where and *how* I would be stretched by a *cock*, and by *whom*, and. And *she* wished for this to be done by my mate, whenever I found him. She was certain that my mate would be a male." Aramis reaches for Treville's shoulders -- stops.

Scents of *worry* rise -- 

"I -- I *am* your cat, my Daddy, and I *will* lift my arse for you, just as the cat inside me wishes to *do* --" 

"Shh, shh, *wait*, son. Just wait," Treville says, and looks to Jason. 

Jason smiles at him wryly. "I don't *know* if we've met Aramis's mate, amant. Have you asked the dog?" 

Treville asks the dog -- 

The dog tells them, pointedly, that if they aren't going to make Aramis spend, then they ought to at least be taking him to speak to the All-Mother, who will know exactly who Aramis should and shouldn't lift his arse for. 

Jason coughs -- 

"He does have a point, lover." 

"Do *you* want to commune with your Mother right now, amant?" 

"I --" 

"I wish to make love!" 

Treville growls and... holds his son. Holds him by the nape and by the hip and -- "Son. Can you tell us how the *boy* in you wishes to make love?" 

Aramis *wriggles* -- 

"Shh, be still for a moment, mon grand," Jason says. "You must not move a *muscle*. You must only think... and then *speak*." 

Aramis's beautiful eyes are wide -- 

*Lambent* for a moment -- and then he *viciously* tamps that down -- 

Stills himself utterly -- 

"Breathe, son. Nice and slow and easy." 

"I --" 

"Shh. Breathe," Jason says, and they stroke him together. 

"Don't say a word, son. Not until you have the answer to the question." 

Aramis acknowledges their orders with his *eyes* -- and then very obviously focuses on breathing for them -- 

Breathing himself down and down -- 

Purring for long moments -- he tamps that down without being told, and goes back to breathing. 

"Beautiful, son..." 

"Perfection..." 

Aramis closes his eyes, lashes fluttering -- but moments later he opens them again. "I know. I know how the boy in me wishes to make love -- I think," Aramis says, and frowns. 

"It's all right if you aren't completely sure, son." 

"Oh, yes. So long as the cat in you doesn't lead you to do something the boy in you absolutely does *not* wish to do...?" And Jason raises an eyebrow. 

"All... all is well, my Teacher? My Daddy?" 

"Just so, mon grand --" 

"And even better than that, son -- because you're giving us the opportunity to *touch* you." 

Aramis reaches up to pet and scratch through the fur on Treville's chest and belly -- 

Treville lets it grow in just a *little* bit more -- 

"Mah!" And Aramis starts molesting with a *will* -- 

"Hmph. Showoff," Jason says, with a bit of put-upon affront. 

"Says the man about to do something terrifying with his shadows." 

"I would *never* --" 

Treville snorts hard. "But wait a moment," he says, and squeezes Aramis's nape lightly. 

"Yes? Yes?" 

"Tell us. Tell us what you *want*." 

Aramis pants -- 

Purrs -- 

Purrs more -- "My Daddy can hold me just *so* while I taste his big cock --" 

Treville growls helplessly. "Yes? That's what you want of me?"

"I used to be very *good* at this, my Daddy. My good mother trained me *well*! I -- I wish to see if I remember..." 

"Oh, son, if you don't, I'll be more than happy to help," Treville says, and barks a laugh.

"Oh, no, no," Aramis says, and tugs at Treville's belly-fur, pinches it between his fingers, smiles and flushes -- 

Treville rumbles. "No...?" 

"*No*," Aramis says, and narrows his eyes in a bright and wicked grin. "My *Jason* is my Teacher, and so *he* must correct, and teach, and guide --" 

Jason's growl darkens the *entire* room -- 

Aramis gasps -- 

Jason grips the hair closer to the *top* of Aramis's head -- there's enough hair for at least five more men to get handsy back here -- and holds Aramis's head still. 

"My Teacher --" 

"Shall I guide you onto your Daddy's cock, mon grand?" 

Aramis grunts -- 

"Shall I teach you how to spend your life on your *knees*?" 

"Mee -- *please* --" 

"*Up*," Jason says, and between the shadows, Jason's strength, and Aramis's motivation, Jason has Aramis up and on his knees in record time. 

Treville stands over his beautiful little cat on the bed -- 

*Keeps* that grip on the back of his neck -- 

"My -- my Daddy --" 

"*I* think," Jason says, and tugs Aramis's head *back*, "that I should teach mon grand the *best* ways to be fucked by his Daddy." 

And Aramis *gurgles* for that; long, slim cock jerking and spattering the bed -- 

Lifting and *thickening* that much more -- 

"Mm. I believe our little cat is *fond* of that idea, lover," Treville says, catching Aramis's increasingly-dazed gaze before starting to give himself some slow and *rough* strokes. 

"Please! Ai -- *please*!" 

"Please what, mon grand?" 

"Tell us what you want... and you can *have* it," Treville says, squeezing his cock hard just beyond his knot -- 

Stroking *harder* -- 

Aramis is staring *fixedly* -- 

And all of it is more than enough to make Treville's own cock rise for the occasion even more than it had been. His sheath peels back and back with the same thick, shudder-inducing sleek *pull* that's been driving him mad since the first night he *became* a shifter -- 

And his cock is right there for his loves, red and animal-obvious -- 

"I do believe your son *wants* it, amant..." 

"Is that so..." 

Aramis chuffs the hunter-noises, strains to get *closer* -- 

Jason holds him *still* -- 

Treville *growls* -- 

Aramis shudders and reaches for Treville with his rough hands -- 

"Hands behind your *back*, mon grand," Jason says, and pulls Aramis farther *away*. 

"Mah!"

"Shh. Simply obey," Jason says, and holds Aramis in position --

Aramis shudders *more* -- and obeys -- 

And pants -- 

And *mews* -- 

"Oh, mon grand... are you *hungry* for your Daddy's cock?" 

"I -- I must please!" 

"Because he is your good Daddy?"

"I -- mehr -- he takes care, and he holds, and he -- he --" 

"He feeds you; and he grooms you; and he shares his warm den with all of its good, *thick* scents..." 

"Please! My -- I -- *you* --" 

"He shares his *pack*, and *all* of the love and *affection* therein..." 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

"He has *made* you his pack, mon grand... and now you must show him that you're *worth* it --" 

Treville *snarls* -- "*Jason* --" 

"Yes, *please*!" And Aramis's eyes are wild, starved, staring and *lost* -- 

His cock is *spasming* -- 

And Jason is looking into *Treville's* eyes as he leans in to growl into Aramis's ear -- "You always have been, mon grand --" 

"No -- I --" 

"Shh. You always *will* be --" 

"MEE!" 

"Oh, yes, little cat. *Oh*, yes," Jason says, bringing his free hand to Aramis's right nipple and twisting *hard* -- 

Aramis whimpers and *mews* -- 

"We will not ever, *ever* stop you from showing us your gratitude, mon grand. We will take it -- and everything *else* -- from you with *endless* hunger..." 

"I -- *I* --" 

"Open your *mouth*." 

"MAH!" 

"Good boy," Jason says, tugging and tugging and *tugging* on Aramis's nipple, and Treville can *feel* that all through himself -- 

Feel it *pulsing* in his *mind* -- 

Feel it throbbing in his *knot* -- 

Aramis's scents are so *high* -- 

His musk is *braiding* itself through the air with Jason's, with Treville's own, and the part of Treville which wants to slow this down, be careful, *ease* his son -- 

Is being shouted right down by the part of him *gripping* Aramis by the nape -- 

Pulling him *closer* -- 

He *focuses* on Treville -- 

He looks so *thrilled* -- and Treville is growling steadily now, *hungrily*, *needily* -- but. 

He has to do this *right*. 

He -- 

Right now, there's *one* way to make that happen: He *stops* pulling -- 

Aramis's eyes widen -- 

"Lover," Treville growls. "*Give* him to me." 

Jason pants -- 

Flushes *dark* -- 

"As you say, amant," he says, and *bites* Aramis's ear -- 

"Ah!" 

"Be ready, mon grand." 

Aramis does his *best* to nod with the way he's being *held* -- and then he simply lets Jason push him. 

*Guide* him. 

Guide him right onto Treville's cock, down and down and down -- 

Oh -- 

Oh, he's groaning, he's -- 

Groaning and *gurgling*, because Jason had stopped him with the *tip* of Treville's cock tickling the back of his throat -- 

Aramis swallows and *drools* -- 

Treville barks and *thrusts* -- 

Aramis gulps and nods and swallows again, again -- 

Swallows hard and sucks -- 

"*More*, little cat," Jason says, and gives Aramis a shove that winds up grinding his beautiful face against Treville's *knot* -- 

Aramis *startles* on his knees -- 

A *sharp* noise gets choked off in his throat -- 

His cock spatters the bed, Treville's legs, Treville's *feet* -- 

So *beautiful*, so *beautiful*, and he's straining on his knees, struggling, *trying* for -- 

"What do you need, mon grand? Mm?" 

(Please! I know how to *do* this! I know how to give pleasure, to --) 

"What did you think you *were* doing, mon grand...?"

(I...) 

Jason laughs *evilly* as he gets an even *tighter* grip on all that wonderful hair -- 

Aramis mews within their *soul*-space -- 

Treville pants and fights for control, fights to hold on, fights to -- 

"Look at you on your knees, mon grand, naked and *stuffed* with your Daddy's cock -- just as you should be..." 

Aramis *bucks* on his knees -- 

Treville snarls and -- he knows his grip on the back of Aramis's neck is bruising, he knows -- 

Fuck, he's *thrusting* into that hot mouth, that soft mouth, that -- 

(Please! Oh, my Daddy, *please*!) 

"*Son* --" 

"I don't think I gave you permission to *address* your Daddy just yet," Jason says, and reaches down to grip Aramis by the *bollocks* -- 

Aramis's eyes fly open *wide* -- 

He stares into *Treville's* eyes with an expression lost between shock and joy, between thrill and *lust*, between hunger and *happiness* -- 

"My *son*," Treville says, and thrusts *in* -- 

*In* -- and then he can't stop, can't -- 

Can't *breathe* around how good it is, how *perfect* it is to fuck his beautiful son's mouth, his perfect son's perfect *mouth*, and now he's *helping* Jason hold Aramis still -- 

Gripping Aramis by the back of the neck and by the *jaw* -- 

Pressing gently on the *hinge* of his jaw and -- 

(Yes! My Daddy, *yes*!) 

"Naughty, *naughty*," Jason says, and does *something* -- 

Something that makes Aramis *yowl* within their shared soul-space and try to work his jaw open even wider, take more, take -- 

"He'll take *everything* now, amant..." 

"My -- my --" And Treville is *snarling* as he fucks his way in, *in* -- 

As he *pounds* his son and tries *not* to -- 

"I can't --" 

"You can, amant. He *wants* it... and you must not ever deny him," Jason says, and his voice is low, dark, silky as shadow and rough as the best caresses -- 

And Aramis's eyes are honey-sweet and *focused* on him, open to *him* -- 

And Treville is crooning, just *crooning* as he pushes -- 

As he -- 

As he *pushes* with his knot, in, just *in*, and there's only so wide his beautiful boy can *open* -- 

The scrape of those teeth is hotter, wilder, *better* -- 

He -- 

Treville throws his head back and *howls* for it, howls and howls and *shoves* -- 

(Oh...) 

But he has to *see*. He *chokes* back his howls and looks *down* -- 

And his son is there, dazed and -- 

And *stretched*. 

Stretched so -- 

He poor mouth -- 

So *beautiful* -- 

His lashes are *fluttering* -- 

(My Daddy... my Teacher...) 

"*Son* -- I –" 

(I have never been. So full...) And Aramis sways on his knees -- 

*Shakes* -- 

His lashes are fluttering even more -- 

His -- 

His *throat* is full, and there's only so much they can -- 

Only so *long* they'll be able to *do* this -- 

(Please fuck me *first*, please have me, please please please --) 

"Hecate's dripping *cunt*, I --" And *Jason* snarls, and shoves his cock between Aramis's arsecheeks -- 

Holds him *tight* -- 

Aramis is flushed so *dark* -- 

Jason's eyes are so *wild* -- 

The shadows are converging on the bed from every corner, darkening the room, thickening the *air*, and now none of them can breathe, none of them can think -- 

None of them can do anything but *rut*, in and in, in and *in* -- 

None of them -- 

(Please, *more*!) 

And he can't ever deny -- 

He *won't* ever deny, but he has to see his beautiful son's eyes for this, for every moment of this as they sway and rut -- 

As they shudder and *shove* -- 

As they -- 

Oh, *in*, and it's so hot, so sleek, so *sweet* with every dirty little gulp, every wet *suck* -- 

And Jason's panted grunts just get more and more deadly, more and more *animal* -- 

He's starting to *shift* back there; the arms clutching their son turning a dark, blood-dipped red and his hair spiking up into a *mane* -- 

His growls are making every hair on Treville's *body* stand up, making Aramis mew *questioningly* and shake even as he goes loose, even as he offers himself *up* -- 

(I am yours! I am always yours!) 

(Yes. You. *Are*,) Jason says, in the demon's voice and *not*, and he bites Aramis's shoulder with those needle-teeth -- 

The scents of his blood and *thrill* make Treville *slam* in again -- 

Again-again-again -- 

Aramis strains and *struggles* -- 

Jason *snarls* -- and the scents of his hot, rich, *smoky* spend fill the air, seem to suck out even more of whatever it is that lets them *breathe* it and stay *conscious* -- 

Treville is *gulping* air and can't see, can't -- 

(*Taste*,) Jason says, and shadows shove his spend into Treville's and Aramis's mouths at the same *time* -- 

Aramis jerks like he's been hit by *lightning* -- and it *hurts* not to know, in this moment, whether it's for the *shock* of the shadows being able to get Jason's spend to him past Treville's knot, or just for that smoky-rich and powerful *taste* -- 

But then Aramis is spurting, spurting all over Treville's legs and feet, all over the bed, all --

All *over*, and the only thing that hurts now is that he's not *tasting* it -- 

The scents are so -- 

The *scents* -- and Treville is growling as he ruts and ruts and *ruts*, as he gulps at the thick, delicious air -- 

As Jason *encases* Treville's bollocks in a shadow and squeezes them *violently* -- 

Again -- 

*Again*, and Treville's howling, choking on it, howling and spurting, spilling -- 

Aramis is nodding even as he *sways* from the lack of air -- 

Jason is petting Aramis's working throat with one clawed hand -- 

Aramis is *purring* in their shared soul-space, and Treville is still spurting helplessly. Just -- 

He has to -- 

He has to pull *out* -- 

Jason shifts back to human-form -- "You *truly* do, amant. The dog, after all, will be able to remove his rather smaller knot from our little cat's mouth with ease. Here, let me help," he says, and *tugs* on the dog's lead -- 

The dog *forces* the shift -- and tries very hard not to hurt his Aramis, because Treville was a foolish dog who made them shift in a position that meant the dog would land *on* his Aramis.

He is making very squashed and breathless noises now that their cock is out of his throat.

The dog moves off him. 

Though -- 

His Aramis, now that he is in human-form, is a good size. 

Perhaps he will not be so bruised? The dog pushes him flat, arranges him into a comfortable position, and examines him carefully to be sure. 

His Jason laughs softly and scratches his ears --

Very nice!

"*Anytime*, Hound. Do be sure to check those hard-to-*reach* areas." 

He will!

His Aramis is making soft, gurgling noises and incoherent purrs, none of which translate to any language the dog knows. That...

The dog sniffs carefully -- 

Happy scents. Pleased scents. Satisfied and *pleasured* scents, even with the -- fading -- hurts in his face. 

The dog pads over to lick his Aramis's face more assiduously -- 

His Aramis purrs more coherently. 

Very good. Very nice! The dog keeps that up. Though... he whuffs at his Jason. Pointedly. 

"Ah... well... I'd have to say it was *mostly* my idea to have Treville knot his mouth, yes --" 

The dog looks at his Jason. 

"He *did* enjoy it, Hound --"

The dog snaps at his Jason and goes back to licking and softing his Aramis. When it is his turn, he will show his Aramis where the knot goes.

"As you *say*, Hound."


	17. There is, ultimately, nothing more important than time spent trolling, savaging, and, eventually, cuddling your loved ones.

Treville wakes up on his belly with his head and one arm hanging over the side of the bed, Porthos's breeches in his mouth, and a well-made teenage boy sprawled atop him.

By this, he knows the following things: 

One: He'd gone to sleep *shifted*. 

Two: So had Aramis. 

Three: Jason had succumbed to the need to watch them be adorable while asleep, and had thus been utterly helpless to convince them to shift back to human form, or even move into slightly less horrible positions. 

Four: If Aramis *had* murdered something or someone else for Treville to eat, the rules of presentation had demanded that whatever it was *not* bleed its last all over Treville -- hm. Jason. 

(Yes, amant? And good *morning*.) 

Good morning to you, lover -- let's be quiet so as not to wake Aramis -- 

(Yes, quite,) Jason says, and they dim their force behind a nice, thick privacy-wall -- (Better?) 

Mm. How long were we up last night?

(The dog rather insisted on *grooming* Aramis --) 

Everywhere? 

(Of course --) 

In cat-form *and* human-form? 

(Of *course*.) 

Treville sighs happily. That *would* explain the *other* tastes in his mouth. And, to be fair, the fur -- 

(If you cough that up on the bed, you'll just give our little cat *ideas*, you know.) 

I'm going to tell him you said that, lover. 

Jason coughs back a titter -- 

Treville grins. At what point did the dog let *you* join the cuddle?

(There were a certain number of apologies to be made --) 

Heartfelt ones? 

(Oh, yes.) 

*Sloppy* ones, lover? 

(Not... quite.) 

Treville blinks -- 

Considers...

The dog decided our Aramis wasn't ready for that sort of thing, yet? 

(Just so, amant. He did *eventually* decide I was worthy to help with the *grooming*... which is why our Aramis's hair is *somewhat* less extravagant this morning.) 

Treville can't help but sigh for that, just a little. 

Jason snorts. (Your fixations --) 

Are *consistent*, lover. Just like the rest of me.

(Mm. I *always* know *precisely* what I'm going to *get* with you...) 

That's *right*. Though...

(Yes...?) 

I can't help but...

(Mm?) 

We *don't* always know what we're going to get with -- I mean, on a purely *physical* -- how the bloody hell did our Aramis sneak a six-foot-tall assassin by *you*? You don't bloody sleep!

(Ah. That.) 

*Yes*? 

(Well...) 

I'm listening, lover. 

(It's...) 

I'm listening quite attentively, really. You might say I'm a captive audience. 

Jason sighs and mutters something... well, it makes the portion of the wainscoting that Treville can *see* start to wither, so Treville is going to assume it was a curse of some sort. 

You were saying, Jason? 

(*One* of the ways our Aramis hunts?) 

Yes? 

(He picks a target -- by tasting their *spirit* from a *distance*, you understand -- and then, long before that target has any inkling that someone, somewhere might mean them harm --) 

He captures that spirit. 

(Yes.) 

And -- what? Does he twist them like he did with all those arseholes in the Musketeer dungeons yesterday? Re-educate them until they all really *want* to be his dinner? 

(Yes, yes, and rather a bit more besides. Remember, amant -- he is *feeding* on their spiritual energies *just* as much as he's feeding on all those tasty little livers and so forth.) 

The liver really is his favourite part, by the way. 

(Truly? I'll keep that in mind.) 

Mm. 

(In *any* event? The reason why he's been able to sneak up on *you* until such time as he was ready for you to dig *in* to whatever meal he had planned for you?) 

He's been capturing me. I -- fuck. Of course he had. I never felt a bloody *thing*, Jason!

(And? I didn't either.) 

*Fuck* -- 

(Oh, yes. As near as I can *tell*,) Jason says, and that rueful smile is *entirely* tangible -- 

I'm *listening* -- 

(We didn't feel it because he didn't trigger a single one of our *alarms*, amant.) 

No, of course he didn't, but -- 

(No, amant. He wasn't trying to attack us. He wasn't offering harm to us or anyone we cared for. He wasn't even offering harm to our *property* -- not truly. Nor was he even trying to mine us for *information*,) Jason says, and that eyebrow-raise is tangible, too. 

He... was just making sure we'd rest. A little more thoroughly. While he did the work of caring for us. He...

Jason sighs. (I'm going to *loathe* making new alarms -- but.) 

Treville winces hard, heart *aching*. I can't -- I can't just -- Aramis *needs* this -- 

(*You* don't have to, amant. In fact, I'm going to pull rank, *yank* your lead, and *order* you not to set this alarm on your soul.) 

Treville blinks -- but. This from the man who makes me glamour myself even when we leave the *sphere*? Most of the time, anyway.

Jason laughs ruefully. (What do you always say, amant? Some things --) 

Some things are more important than everything else. Fuck -- yes, absolutely, Treville says, yanking down the privacy-wall, rolling further onto the bed, and cuddling his beautiful Aramis between him and Jason *firmly* -- 

"Oof! My Daddy --" 

"Good morning, son," Treville says, and licks his little cat's throat -- 

"Ee --" 

"Oh, yes. Welcome back to consciousness," Jason says, and shadows dive in from everywhere to tickle and stroke and tease --

"MEE!" 

As early-morning wrestling goes, Aramis seems to prefer the sort with a lot more blood-letting than most -- 

Perhaps they'll work on that.

Eventually, he and Jason get him restrained between them again, shoulder-length hair somewhat fluffed, beautiful body curled in, Treville's and Jason's blood striping his lovely face -- 

Treville licks him clean --

"I have decided to allow this." 

"Thank you very much for -- mm -- that, son." 

"I have -- what were the two of you speaking about when I was pretending to sleep?" 

Jason snorts and the shadows *converge* -- 

"DO NOT TICKLE ME MORE!" 

Treville nips Aramis's cheek -- 

"Ai!" 

"We were talking about you, son, and how *effortlessly* you trap us when you want to." 

Aramis's expression is proud, sly, pleased, hungry, thrilled -- 

He chuffs hunter-sounds -- 

"I love you so much, son." 

"I love *you*, my Daddy!" 

"I *also* love you, mon grand --" 

"This is *good* --" 

"-- but I will not be able to let you trap *me* that way anymore." 

Aramis is silent -- 

Silent -- 

*Silent* -- 

"Son." 

"My Teacher is good. My Teacher is *wise*." 

"Your Teacher does *try*, mon grand --" 

"My Teacher... has already taught his Aramis to try *harder*," Aramis says, nuzzling his entire body against Jason's in a long, liquid wave before leaning in to nip Jason's collarbone. 

"I..." 

Treville hums *precisely* as obnoxiously as he can. "Feeling a bit conflicted, lover?" 

"I would *never* --" 

"Admit that?" 

"My Daddy is droll. My Teacher is droll," Aramis says, and gives them *both* full-body nuzzles. 

Treville sighs and licks that long throat -- 

Aramis purrs and *purrs* -- 

Reaches deep into their shared soul-space -- 

(Wha...? Aramis? Izzat you?) And Porthos is *obviously* mostly asleep -- 

(Mm. If it is, do tell him to curl *firmly* around my face,) Athos says, and -- he may or may not be asleep. 

"Mee?" 

(Athos, I already told you that you have to get to know a bloke before you make requests like that.) 

(He. Mm. He *is* our brother, Porthos --) 

(Even when the bloke's your brother.)

(That seems rather excessively limiting --)

(I. It's too bloody early for -- get that kerchief in your mouth, brother.) 

(But I haven't greeted our pack, yet --) 

(WHOSE BLOODY FAULT IS THAT?) 

Jason laughs quietly -- 

Treville licks his *lips* -- 

And Aramis stares in rapt fascination, batting at the air seemingly unconsciously. 

Treville catches that hand and licks it -- 

(Mah!)

Aramis, son, is there something you'd like to say to your brothers?

(Oh! Yes, my Daddy! I --)

(Oh, hey, you *shifted*?) 

(I -- yes. Our Daddy's good dog taught me this, and I -- I...) And Aramis colours *deeply* -- 

Beautifully -- 

*Tangibly* even within their soul-space -- 

(For the record,) Athos says, (I would be entirely in favour of you wrapping yourself firmly around my face no matter what form you chose to do so in.) 

And there is a pause -- 

A *lengthy* pause -- no. 

Son. 

(Yes, sir?) 

Son, I... is there something *you* would like to tell us?

(Ah, well. The mission became somewhat more complicated -- though not dangerously so -- per se --) 

*Son*. 

(Athos's beard got burned right off his face, sir,) Porthos says. (He healed, but uh. He's smooth as a baby's arse, at the moment.) 

(And, thus, somewhat chilled.) 

(The cleft in his chin isn't really helping the... well. He's smooth, is what I'm saying.)

(I find myself wondering,) Jason says, smiling *evilly*, (why you haven't simply asked *Porthos* to wrap himself -- firmly -- round your smooth, suggestive cheeks, Athos.) 

(Oh, you mustn't think I haven't --) 

(He's spent this whole bloody mission gagged, Jason. 's a good thing we bring extra kerchiefs -- the usual one burnt up with his beard.) 

Aramis stares -- 

*Treville* stares -- 

At *nothing* -- 

No, wait. Sons. When -- 

(Wait, though. Daddy, d'you think the beardlessness will be more *alluring* for you?) 

(Oh, that *is* an attractive thought,) Athos says, and his broad, mad smile is entirely tangible. 

I. 

And every last one of his children is looking at him *expectantly*, just as if it's entirely reasonable for him to *answer* that question -- 

Aramis smacks him. 

It is, in fact, reasonable for *him* to answer *that* question, because he is exactly who he is, and no one else. "Ah... sons. I like your beards. I *vastly* enjoy your beards. And Athos? While I tossed myself off to you vigorously and repeatedly while you were Olivier? The matter only grew more intense when you became who you are *now*." 

(Well, that's done it, Daddy. Now he's going to glue a sodding *merkin* to his face.) 

Jason splutters -- 

Treville *coughs* -- 

Aramis smacks Treville *repeatedly* -- 

(I would like to state, for the record, that I would be satisfied with simply having Aramis wrapped firmly around my face for the foreseeable future -- that is, of course, if you are amenable, brother.) 

(I.) And Aramis pauses the smacking. 

Porthos *and* Athos raise their eyebrows. 

(I would like to know,) Aramis says, (when you both are coming... home.) And he colours again, even more deeply. 

Porthos's smile is blinding and full of unmitigated *joy* -- 

*Athos's* smile is caught between delight and *madness* -- 

(Mee --) 

(As soon as we *possibly* can, brother --) 

(Which, given the realities of the carnage and property damage we've created --) 

(-- *probably* won't be for another two days --) 

(-- but we will try to make it one, just the same,) Athos says, and sends the feel of a tipped hat. 

(This is good! I will cook for you!) 

Jason chokes on a *guffaw* -- 

(Oh, *nice* one! Daddy didn't say you cooked, *too*!) 

(Yes, truly, sir, you *must* share these things with alacrity,) Athos says... ever so sternly. 

Treville hums -- 

And strokes Aramis's cheek -- 

And traces Aramis's brightly demented smile with his fingertips... mm. "Oh, sons. I will *absolutely* work on being more communicative... in the future." 

(Too *right*. But uh. The other men are waking up -- I think they noticed Athos trying to wrap my breeches around his face while I was still wearing 'em.)

(They truly are much warmer that way, brother.) 

Jason snorts. (We love you both *very* much,) he says, and sends tight, *hot* caresses -- 

(Please aim that at my face -- and we love *you*, Jason --) 

(And you, too, Daddy!) 

Mm. My boys, Treville says, and sends deep, sweet kisses -- because he can't do anything else. 

(Be well, Aramis,) Athos says, and strokes gently. (We *both* look forward to coming to know you in every possible way.) 

(Too right, brother,) Porthos says, and caresses. (Can't wait to *smell* you again... mm.) 

After a moment, Aramis sends the feel of a full-body nuzzle -- 

His boys laugh with thrill and wonder -- 

And the connection dims, slowly. 

Treville sighs and nuzzles into Aramis's throat -- 

Jason hums and, by the sound of it, nuzzles into Aramis's hair -- 

Aramis purrs, open-mouthed and sweet. "My pack is good. My pack is good." 

It won't be long before Treville has to rise, and dress, and pull on all the trappings and worries and cares of the Captain of the King's Musketeers again, but...

For now, he is exactly who and where he wants to be.

end.


End file.
